


The 85th Annual King County Bake-Off

by venvephe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ensemble Cast, Fluff, Frenemies, M/M, Miscommunication, Misgendering, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8786827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe
Summary: It’s October first, and it’s all come down to this. The cake is perfect. He’s been waiting for this moment all year, since the previous baking competition. This is his chance at redemption, at reclaiming the crown of the best baker in the county. It’s a title only the winner of the county fair can hold. He’s waited a year and spent hours upon hours at work. Early mornings and late nights, scrapped ideas and tons of flour and sugar went into his masterpiece. It’s all led to him to standing here, awaiting the announcement of the winners.This year, it’s going to be Hanzo. Last year’s winner - his rival, his nemesis - is going down. Hanzo’s not going to let his mortal enemy take the crown for a third year in a row.What kind of name is Jesse McCree, anyways?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, when a story idea nips at you, you just have to turn around and write it.
> 
> This is my first foray into writing for Overwatch fandom, and I'm excited to be sharing it! Bakery AUs hold a special place in my heart, and I'm happy to contribute this one to Overwatch and McHanzo. I sincerely hope that reading this gives you as much joy as it did to me while I was writing it! This was my NaNoWriMo project for 2016, and as such, it's probably going to round out at about 40k. More than a month in the making already, I hope to complete it and post chapters between now and the new year!
> 
> This story wouldn't exist without my dear Thea, who threw ideas around with me, held my hand when I needed guiding and was an invaluable cheerleader all through the month of November when I was putting the words on paper. Without her enthusiasm and love for this story, it wouldn't be here. I'm sorry there still no butt stuff yet, Thea. 
> 
> I also owe a huge amount to my dear Purin, whose fantastic thoughts helped guide these characters and whose encouragement was vital to this story continuing as it did. I'm very lucky to have such a great friend to shout about McHanzo with! And I'm sorry there still no butt stuff yet, Purin. 
> 
> Also to the beta readers who helped comb out the snarls in my writing and took the time to read this silly story. Thank you, queerthan, ancientsheikah, and argo-fuckyourself for your dedication and commentary! Your work is the icing on top of this fic-cake! ♥
> 
> A note on the tag for Misgendering: at the start of this story, two of the main characters have never met face-to-face; they have only seen each others' names. The misgendering comes from an assumption about this and isn't intentionally hurtful or cruel. The character in question is cis, and is never misgendered to their face.
> 
> Okay, I'm not going to delay any longer. I'm too excited to share this. Enjoy!

There’s a bakery on the corner of Maple and Main, bookended by a pharmacy on one side and the town library on the other. All is still, this early in the morning. There’s still a blush on the horizon, the sky warming from faded blue to purple to pink, clouds dotting the horizon like peaks of frosting. Even the sign hanging above the bakery’s entrance doesn’t swing. The grass in front of the library’s entrance sparkles with heavy drew, enough chill in the air to make Hanzo tug his scarf closer to his mouth. His breath comes in faint puffs of white, and he walks faster.

It’s September first, and he has his work cut out for him.

Hanzo’s the first to arrive at the bakery by a long shot - as it should be, considering he’s the owner and head chef. The bell tinkles above him when he unlocks and opens the front door, flicking on the lights as he scuffs his feet clean on the mat. The chandeliers over the cluster of cafe tables come to life, the fluorescent lights in the bakery display cases glowing with warmth. Everything is in order, just as he left it: the tiled floor is clean, the cakes and pastries each perfectly placed in neat columns, the glass nearly sparkling as he inspects it.

It’s quiet, but pleasantly so, as he sets to work. There’s nothing like the valuable hour or two he gets first thing in the morning, when he can bake and experiment and prepare for the tasks of the day ahead without his assistants - or his brother - getting underfoot. His new creations are never spur-of-the-moment, after all. They require testing and tasting and patience: dedication to the delicate craft of pastry. Hanzo would be lying if he said this wasn’t his favorite part of the day.

Which is why this particular Friday morning is so important. Because it’s September first, and that means one month from today is October first.

And October first is the day before the King County Fair. October first is the day that baking entries are due to the Food & Crafts building for judging, to be weighed and tested and then merited ribbons the next day. October first is the true test.

Because this year, Hanzo Shimada is going to _win._

Hanzo ties his hair back with practiced hands, gold elastic snapping along his knuckles as he pulls his ponytail once, twice - tight against his head and out of his way. He finishes buttoning his chef’s whites, cuffing his sleeves to the elbow to bare the tattoo that winds around his left. It’s the bakery’s namesake, and it’s always anchored him to his goals. The balance of beauty and flavor, interpreting the old to create something new, geometric designs, perfection - all things that have become the hallmarks of his bakery.

And yet. And _yet._ The blue ribbon last year went to another baker.

The clang of the metal bowls against the table are loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen, the soft hum of the refrigerators and lights the only other noise besides Hanzo’s clamorous measuring and mixing. September first is day one on the journey to crafting the masterpiece he’ll eventually submit to the competition, and he intends to start strong.

He gets wrapped up enough in the labour of the first two batches of batter that time blurs. He doesn’t even hear the bell tinkle over the door at the front of the shop. But it must, because he _does_ hear the delicate sniff and thoughtful hum from over his shoulder as he butters the cake pans in front of him.

“What’s this?” Genji asks, stifling a yawn with one hand as he leans on Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo brushes him off like he’d swat a fly; despite the show of early-morning laziness, Genji manages to dart away in time, grinning. “Are you working on another experiment? It’s _Friday._  There’s no need to push yourself to do something new so late in the week.”

“We are still open on Saturday mornings, Genji,” Hanzo sighs, trying to focus at the task at hand rather than rehash an argument they’ve had a dozen times before. The butter’s already melting against his fingers, as quickly as he’s trying to work. “Besides which, it is September first, which means preparation for- ”

“Ah, yes, the county fair, and your attempt to exact your revenge on last year’s baking champion,” Genji grins widely, running a hand through his unruly - and, god, still _green_ \- hair. It does nothing but makes the messy spikes defy gravity even further. “Only a month until you face your mortal enemy, the baker that goes by the name of...”

“J _esse McCree_ ,” they say in unison - Hanzo flat and serious, Genji with a smirk, and Hanzo shoots a glare in his brother’s direction for his unmasked amusement. “If you’re going to just stand there and laugh-”

“Hanzo, Hanzo,” Genji laughs, holding up his palms placatingly, “your noble quest for baking superiority is _nothing_ I would so much as laugh at! I can see this year’s headlines now: Local Pastry Chef Dominates County Baking Competition, Avenges Last Year’s Tragic Pie Loss to Area Soccer Mom. ”

Did he have to bring up the pie? “The apple crop last year was _subpar,_ and apple pie in particular was not my forte,” Hanzo grunts. _Was,_ because he’d made nothing afterwards for _weeks,_ trying to analyze where he’d gone wrong. Baked fruit would not be his Achilles heel. “It was a fluke. This year is going to be different.”

“If you say so.” He hear Genji’s grin in his voice, and the urge to shoo his brother out of the kitchen keeps growing. He doesn’t understand the importance of winning back the crown of the county baking competition.

The crown may be an engraved silver plate, but Hanzo’s still going to win it.

“It will be,” Hanzo grunts, willing Genji to lose interest and leave him to his work before the rest of the staff shows up. It doesn’t work; no matter what mental signals of _go away, little brother_ Hanzo sends in his direction, Genji doesn’t even notice. Or pretends not to notice. The little shit.

“It’s just a little funny,” Genji continues, hopping up to sit on the counter by the sink - safely away from the sting of Hanzo’s towel, he’s learned that lesson enough to know better - and swinging his legs back and forth. “Jesse McCree is your _Dinkleberg._ I didn’t think real people _had_ a Dinkleberg.”

“My  _what."_

“Your rival! The Yankees to your Red Sox. The Mothra to your _Gojira._ Except, you know. With five-layer crumble bars.”

“ _Genji_ ,” Hanzo chastises. “Shouldn’t you be opening up the shop front now? Or finishing up this month’s paperwork?”

Ever light on his feet, Genji hops down and darts past Hanzo before he can make a pass at ruffling his younger brother’s hair. He’d have to wash his hands again if he did, anyway, so Hanzo just makes do with rolling his eyes. He wipes his butter-slicked fingers on his apron, mouth creased in a mild frown at his brother’s continued look of delight. Genji’s smart enough to know when Hanzo’s just trying to get rid of him for some peace and quiet, so he doesn’t press the matter - probably because it’s still so early in the morning.

“I’m on it, boss,” Genji salutes, pulling his apron off the hook and tying it around his waist. The bright green and dark blue of the bakery logo stands out starkly on the white - Genji’s idea, which Hanzo can grudgingly admit was a good one. “Good luck with the experiment - let me try some later?”

Despite himself, Hanzo softens at the eagerness in Genji’s tone. “If it’s passable,” he concedes, grabbing a spatula. Time to fill the tins and put the first round of test bakes in the oven.

Genji’s nose wrinkles even as he smiles. “Everything you make is _passable_ , Hanzo, even if _you_ don’t think so because you’re an insufferable perfectionist. You’ve got a month, though - I’m sure whatever you come up with is going to blow the judges away, _and_ blow this Jesse McCree out of the water. She’s not gonna know what hit her.”

At that, Hanzo finally returns Genji’s smirk. “That is the plan.”

 

This year’s competition theme is sponge cake, and Hanzo is going to nail it.

He’d had a coworker, when he was apprenticing as a pastry chef in Paris, who wouldn’t tell him her first name until he’d charmed it out of her with a proper Genoise sponge cake. That had been her challenge, in those exact words; he’d only known her as Lacroix for _months_ , with the exacting French standards that she held.

There’s no way the county judges can hope to be more intimidating than her piercing, golden eyes had been when he would set a cake attempt in front of her, carefully plated and constructed with care. Hanzo can’t even remember the number of Genoise sponge cakes he’s made - both the tries that made it to plating and those that failed, too sad to even show her.

But he’s good at it, now. He knows the exact texture that the batter needs to be, how much he can fold before the bubbles break and the cake will get unpleasantly dense. He knows how long to sift the dry ingredients, how much sugar to add to the butter for the filling. He knows that Lacroix’s favorite way to prepare it is with perfectly sliced strawberries and thick layers of buttercream, but that even _that_ will not save an imperfect cake.

Amélie was meticulous and uncompromising mean to make him a better chef, after all. Hanzo can respect that.

The first Genoise sponge that he lets Genji try is a week and a half away from the submission date. There’s still buttercream, delicately flavored with vanilla; there’s still sliced strawberries, ringing the edge of the cake like a crown. But he’s flavored the sponge itself with matcha and ginger, and it’s a beautiful, even green when he slices into it to give Genji a taste.

The look on his brother’s face at seeing the color is worth all the times that he’s had to say _not yet_ and chase him out of the kitchen.

Hanzo carefully plates the slice, taking care that it doesn’t wobble and tip onto one of its flat sides. He won’t be there to cut slices the day-of - there’s nothing he can do about presentation, once the whole cake is in the judge’s hands - but for Genji, he wants to make an impression.

“Ooh, all for me? Why, thank you!” Genji reaches for the rest of it - the whole cake, with just the sliver cut out of it - and cackles when Hanzo swipes at him. Even while glaring, Hanzo can’t help but smirk at the joke.

“That much cake is _too_ much cake,” Hanzo warns, and places the piece he’d cut in Genji’s hands instead. He twists to fish a fork out of a nearby drawer, and when he turns around again, Genji hastily pops one frosting-covered finger into his mouth. Hanzo sighs.

“There’s no such thing as too much cake _,_ ” Genji grins, taking the offered fork and gesturing with it like it’s a scepter. “How can you say that? You _own_ a bakery. Your livelihood is cake!”

“And I don’t eat all of it, and neither should you,” he counters, but shuts his mouth with a click as Genji slices off a piece of the Genoise sponge and takes a bite. Genji chews, and chews, eyes wandering around the kitchen aimlessly as he considers the taste - and not-so-subtly watching Hanzo’s increased impatience for his verdict.

“Genji- ”

He swallows and licks his lips, catching some of the stray buttercream that’s smeared on the corner of his mouth. “First of all - how dare you, stacking the deck against me with both strawberry _and_ matcha. It’s amazing. I’m going to eat the rest of this entire cake right now.”

“You are not going to eat the rest of this entire cake right now. It’s eight in the morning.”

“Secondly,” Genji cuts the rest of the small slice in half and stuffs it in his mouth, heedless of Hanzo’s expression of long-suffering amusement. “ _Secondly_ , you can’t submit this to the county bake-off.”

Hanzo feels the smile drop off his face, brows pinching down into a frown. “Why not?”

“Hanzo, this is the _county bake-off._ You can’t use matcha and expect everyone to like it and know what it is!”

“Green tea is a popular flavor at Mei’s shop, and the matcha cakes do well here,” he argues, but he can feel his stomach drop. He knows Genji’s right. It means stepping back to square one and scrapping more than a week’s worth of work, but he’s right.

Genji barrels forward, despite the disappointment settling heavily on Hanzo’s shoulders. “Yeah, but if you’re going to beat Jesse McCree, you gotta beat her at her own game. Perfect sponge. Something a little unusual, a good twist, but nothing too outright _weird_ for the judges.” He takes another big bite, and Hanzo grimaces as Genji talks through his mouthful. “More strawberries.”

 _More strawberries_ he can work with. “So back to the drawing board for flavor. But the texture? The frosting?”

“A plus and A plus,” Genji confirms, flashing him a thumbs-up as he licks his fingers, having just plucked a strawberry slice left on his plate and popped it into his mouth. “We can workshop the flavor. What would bring out the strawberries more?”

“Balsamic makes for a nice pairing. Also coconut, basil, ginger, mint-”

“Mint!” Genji gestures widely with his fork, and Hanzo takes a step back to get out of his range. “Strawberry and mint, maybe? Lightly mint cake, fresh mint leaves?”

“You just want something else that’s green,” Hanzo scoffs, but there’s no heat behind it. Genji grins, caught out and unapologetic.

“Are you going to add more matcha things to the bakery menu?” he asks instead, scraping at the last smear of frosting on his plate. “You know Mrs. Knight from the library next door is nuts about it, we could at least go bring her a slice of this cake. So all of it doesn’t go to waste.”

Hanzo tosses a smirk over his shoulder as he wipes down the workspace, gathering up the bowls and spatulas and spoons to wash. “What happened to eating the entire thing yourself?”

Genji shakes his head, green hair bouncing. It’s only a few shades brighter than the slice of cake he’s just inhaled. “If you’re going to start experimenting from scratch, there are a lot more cakes in both of our futures. I’m going to have to share, if I want to keep my svelte figure.”

“Indeed,” Hanzo says wryly, raising an eyebrow. He steps towards the cake again, reaching for the edge of the cake-plate. “So you don’t mind if I just- ”

“Well, I can be careful about what I eat later,” Genji interrupts, snatching the knife off the counter so that he can slice himself a second piece. “Let me do another taste test and tell you what I think again, before you give the rest away.”

“Of course, brother,” Hanzo smiles.

 

Ten days and seven cakes later, Hanzo is capital-R Ready.

He’s not one for superstition, but he takes his time boxing up his cake to deliver to the county fair bake-off judges. This is _the_ cake, the winner, the one that is going to earn him the crown back from the soccer-mom usurper, Jesse McCree. An hour for now it will be out of his hands and left to the judgement of the baking panel and their seasoned, expert palates. A month of long work and many, many test cakes has gone into this final masterpiece.

It’s October first, and it’s all come down to this.

The cake is _perfect_. Hanzo isn’t one to brag unduly, but he’s outdone himself this time. Layers of flawless, uniform lemon sponge cake sandwich pale buttercream, thick and smooth with the delicate flavor of roses and slices of strawberries. He’d used the darkest, sweetest strawberries he could find so late in the year, and it shows: even now, so soon after its construction, the juices are starting to stain the cake and frosting a luscious red.

Hanzo is deliberately slow, exceedingly careful in getting the cake into the cake box. He takes pains not to touch it, lest he disrupt the precise geometric piping of the frosting on top. Rose petals dot the surface at the edges of the design, neatly spaced between the ring of strawberries along the outside. Just a nudge in the wrong direction, just a graze with a stray finger could spell the end of his chances right here.

He’s made Genji take three steps back from the table, just in case.

But when the cake’s finally snug in its box, and Hanzo steps back with an exhale, relief making his shoulders sag. At this point, he’s done all he can do. All that’s left is to drive across town and deliver it, and return to the fairgrounds first thing in the morning to wait for the judging.

Genji sidles up to him, peering over Hanzo’s shoulder to take a look at the glorious cake. He whistles low, a smile creeping onto his face at the sight of it. “Damn, Hanzo. It’s beautiful. How are you going to give this child of yours away?”

“Genji,” Hanzo sighs, but can’t stop the grin that’s tugging at the corner of his lips. It _is_ beautiful, and there’s nothing wrong with being proud of hard work.

“Lemme get a picture of it for Mei,” Genji fishes around in his pocket, tongue out, but Hanzo eyes the phone warily once it makes an appearance.

“Only send it to Mei - no posting on the bakery social media yet,” he warns, watching as Genji leans in and out, tilting his phone this way and that to find the perfect angle. The strawberries look particularly good in the bakery light, the early morning sun streaming in through the windows and making the fruit positively glisten. “There is no need to invite possible disqualification, or sway the judges before they have that the fair chance of tasting it.”

“Of course, of course,” Genji nods, going quiet as he taps out a text to their friend. He nudges Hanzo in the side with his elbow, flashing him a grin. “She’s going to want you to make one for her, you know. Hey, why don’t you send a picture to that friend of yours? Mademoiselle one-thousand-and-one-cakes?”

“She’d think I’m asking for a critique,” Hanzo huffs, but he pulls out his phone anyway. He has no idea when she’ll see it - Amelie is traveling all the time now, keeping her empire of internationally renowned pastry shops on a tight leash - but he snaps a picture and types out a short message regardless.

“Well, she’s only gonna have good things to say about this one,” Genji hands him the plastic cover to the cake box with a confident, conspiratorial smile. “Ready to get rolling? Let’s get this cake on the road!”

“Let’s,” Hanzo presses the cover down gently but firmly, waiting until it snaps in place underneath his fingertips. He reaches for the collar of his chef’s whites to undo the clasp, and the buttons down the front after that. It wouldn’t do to show up in his professional kit, after all. The jacket and apron go on the hook by the door, and he re-ties his ponytail with a longer length of gold ribbon. He can’t wear it in the kitchen, but it doesn’t hurt to have a good luck charm on today of all days.

Genji hands him a scarf and then, with great care and caution, the boxed Genoise sponge. He holds the door open for Hanzo to exit, tipping forward in a little bow as Hanzo passes. Neither of them can keep the nervous smiles off their faces, Genji caught up in the spirit of the competition as much as Hanzo. Between the two of them, they cut two tall figures in gold and blue and green - the Shimada colors, the ones emblazoned in scripted font on the front windows of their shop, the ones decorating the logo on the sides of the box in Hanzo’s hands.

He’s going to win this year, he can feel it, and then the Shimada bakery will have the first prize in baking again - just like it is supposed to be.

 

 

There’s a line ten-people deep in front of the Food & Crafts building when they arrive at the fairgrounds. Hanzo recognizes a few of them; it’s a college town, but not a very big one, and he’s always been good at remembering the names and faces of his regulars. Three people in front of them is Mrs. Filmore and her wife, who brings her grandkids into the bakery to get cookies every other Friday. Her arms are filled with the colorful bulk of a quilt, so she gives Hanzo and Genji a wide smile in lieu of waving their way.

Genji, curious to the point of being unabashedly nosy, cranes his neck around to peek at what everyone else has brought to submit to the fair’s competitions. The line is moving, albeit gradually, and already another dozen people have queued up behind them.

“Good turnout so far,” Genji comments, eyeing each bag and box and package of the people around them in turn - as if, by narrowing his eyes, he can discern and judge their contents. “Don’t worry, though. No one is going to give you competition this year. I can feel it.”

Hanzo grunts, unwilling to say that he agrees - not in front of potential competitors, at least. There’s no need to jinx himself with so much of his pride on the line. His cake _is_ going to win, but he knows the tense knot of nerves in his stomach won’t settle until the cake is safely in the judge’s hands.

He wills himself to relax his white-knuckle grip on the cake box. It’s going to be fine. He didn’t prepare for a month for nothing, and there’s nothing that can happen in the next ten minutes before he drops off the cake that is going to change anything.

Genji whistles behind him, low and appreciative. Despite himself, Hanzo turns his head, eyes searching out his brother - who’s biting his lower lip between his teeth and rocking back on his heels, gaze locked on the back of the line. It’s a classic look on Genji. His brother is a flirt, if well-meaning, and Hanzo internally begs that Genji won’t make a fool of himself _or_ the both of them, not on such an important day as this. But Hanzo follows Genji’s line of sight, unable to help his own curiosity, and the sight makes him stop dead and stare.

He knew when moving here that this was a college town, far enough between the countryside and the city to be comfortable suburban. People of all walks of life make up the city’s residents, and Hanzo himself knows many of them.

He never expected to come across a genuine _cowboy._

Because that’s what this guy is, even if he’s got a off-white cake box tucked under one arm, a looping bow of red string keeping the sides and top of it tight and secure. He’s leaning against the wooden split-rail fence that decorates the fairgrounds, one hand around the box - a submission into one of the competitions? - and the other making animated gestures as he talks to the amused, middle-aged woman with a basket of homemade jams in front of him. There’s no mistaking the blue-and-white plaid button-down and jeans and boots for anything other than _cowboy_ , though.

Hanzo’s never met a cowboy that cooks, but he’s suddenly struck by the thought that he would like to.

Genji catches the expression on his face, and his grin widens to a smirk. “You seeing that too, Hanzo?”

Blinking out of his stupor, Hanzo hums wordlessly and turns to face forward in line again, resolutely ignoring the cowboy who’s just barely out of his line of vision. Genji crowds up close, careful not to nudge the box Hanzo hugs protectively.

“I’ve never seen that tall drink of water come into the bakery,” Genji murmurs, eyes flicking over Hanzo’s shoulder - towards the cowboy - again. Hanzo wills his heart to stop pounding. There’s enough stress in his veins as it is, they’re four people away from the doors of the Food & Crafts building, his winning cake is almost safely out of his hands, and _Genji doesn’t stop talking_.

“I’d remember if he did, I’m sure. It’s not every day that you see- are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Hanzo grits out, but once Genji catches a whiff of something, he doesn’t let it go. Hanzo can feel his face start to heat in a tell-tale blush.

“ _Oh,”_ Genji’s looking at the cowboy again - can Genji _not_ be so obvious about looking at the cowboy again? “He’s totally your type _,_ isn’t he?”

“I don’t have a _type._ Come on, the line is moving.” At this rate, this is going to be the longest ten minutes of Hanzo’s life. Can’t a man just deliver his cake in peace?

“Suuure,” Genji draws out the vowel, making no attempt to keep his voice down. Hanzo would strangle him with his hair scarf if he didn’t have his hands full with incredibly important cargo. But they shuffle forward, following the line as it inches closer and closer to the open doorway. They’re close enough that Hanzo imagines he can feel the faint warmth of heat from inside; it’s still rather mild, for the beginning of October.

“Think he’s here to drop something off for the competition?”

Hanzo’s lips thin as he presses them together, cheeks coloring. Mei always tells him that the best way to get his younger brother to change topics is to act uninterested and not rise to the bait. He has never been successful in making that tactic actually _work._

“He certainly isn’t here just to chat up Mrs. Stevenson,” Hanzo says, and despite himself, turns to look at the back of the line again. Genji’s smirk, out of the corner of his eye, is positively mischievous.

But he’s too preoccupied to be worried about Genji, because from across the courtyard, at the back of the line, the cowboy has caught Hanzo staring.

Hanzo can’t look away. The man’s face is just as handsome as the rest of him. Stubble and an unkempt beard cover his strong jaw and frame his roguish smile, which he flashes at Hanzo with a quirked eyebrow. Hanzo’s heart trips over itself in his chest, and he swallows thickly.

With his hands full he can’t so much as wave hello, but he nods his head and gives what he hopes is a friendly smile - for all that it feels like a grimace, with the sudden presence of butterflies in his stomach. Genji’s eyes flick between the two of them from his place half-hidden behind Hanzo, watching it play out with the glee of a man far too invested in his brother’s love life. Which he is.

The cowboy raises a hand to his hat - a mechanical arm, Hanzo notes, he hadn’t noticed before - and tips it in Hanzo’s direction with a flirtatious wink.

He most certainly _does not_ swoon on the spot, but Hanzo feels the blood rushing to his cheeks. His face is probably hotter than an Easy-Bake Oven.

Thankfully - Hanzo’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, actually - the woman behind them clears her throat, and he realizes with a start that the line has moved quite far ahead of them. He takes a few quick steps to catch up, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder again.

Moving forward puts them inside the building, to Hanzo’s relief. They’re out of the glare of the morning sun - and out of view from the cowboy. They’re finally about to do what they came here to do in the first place: drop off his Genoise sponge cake and place it into the safekeeping of the fairgrounds employees and judges.

Feeling eyes on him, Hanzo glances over his shoulder at Genji. He looks fit to burst with delight.

“Don’t say it,” Hanzo warns, but Genji’s mouth is already opening.

“Oh my god,” Genji exhales in a rush, grinning. “Did he wink at you!? He _winked_ at you. Ask for his number on our way out!”

“I will do no such thing,” he replies flatly, resisting the urge to tap his foot in impatience, careful to keep the box in his hands still. Almost there. “All he did was smile at me. There’s no need to get excited, Genji. We didn’t speak even a word to each other.”

“Which is why you should say hello when we’re on the way out,” his brother’s tone is perfectly calm and reasonable, but the scheming glint of his eyes says something different. Hanzo knows better than to assume that Genji isn’t up to something.

He steps forward again, that much closer to the front of the line. They’re only two people away from the front now, a long table where a seated group of ladies in county fair sweatshirts and eyeglasses with beaded chains are cataloguing each entry and organizing them by type. Already there are stacks of homemade jam and boxes of baked goods, quilts and framed needlework and sweaters knitted by hand.

He’s here to deliver his cake, nothing else.

“Mr. Shimada,” the round-faced woman behind the table smiles kindly at him when he reaches the front of the line, glancing down to jot his name down on one of the lists in front of her. “It’s good to see you, dear. The baking competition again this year? What do you have for us?”

“June, it’s good to see you too,” Hanzo returns the smile, “It’s a sponge cake. You cut your hair since you last came into the bakery, didn’t you?”

June laughs as she reaches for the submission form that will accompany the cake. “Indeed I did! Nothing gets by your brother, does it, Mr. Shimada?”

This she addresses to Genji, who shakes his head with a wry smile. “The only thing that _does_ get by my brother is a fucking clue,” he mutters, softly enough that it’s out of June’s earshot, and Hanzo steps on his foot as carefully as he can while holding the cake box. Genji grins daggers at him.  

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re entering the competition again,” June continues, checking off boxes on the form. She writes _Sponge Cake, Baking Division III, Oct 1st_ on a label in perfect cursive, sticking it to the top of Hanzo’s cake box with care. Tearing the top page off a notepad, June hands it to Hanzo with a smile; it’s emblazoned with a large number six. “That’s your number in the competition, hang on to it for tomorrow. But of course, you’ve done all this before. You know where to leave your cake?”

“Yes, thank you,” Hanzo nods, jerking his chin for Genji to follow him. “Let’s bring this to the kitchen.”

“Good luck, dear,” June calls after them with a wave, which Genji returns distractedly, fingers moving rapidly on the screen of his phone. Probably telling god knows who about the cowboy.

“See,” Genji looks up to flash him a smirk. “All you have to do with that cowboy is what you just did with June. Pay him a compliment, give him a smile. You’re cute enough to get away with saying just about anything and still get his number.”

“Your confidence and faith in me is astounding,” Hanzo deadpans, heading through the swinging doors to the test kitchen, where the twin refrigerators reserved for the baking competitions sit. Without asking, Genji jumps forward and opens the one labeled _Div III: Sponge_ so Hanzo can slide his box onto an empty shelf.

A weight lifts his shoulders once it’s settled safely in place. There’s always an urge to peek at the cake, to make sure that it made the trip safe and sound and unmarred, but Hanzo pushes the thought away. He knows his craft, and he knows his work. The Genoise sponge cake is officially delivered and out of his hands.

He straightens with a sigh, and Genji lets the door fall closed. Now for the agony of the twenty-four hour wait before the fair starts and the judging begins.

Hanzo’s had three years of experience in this part as well; he knows that the best way to ignore the nerves and anticipation before the big day tomorrow is distraction, and he knows the best distraction is to head back to the bakery and submerge himself in work. But the sly look on Genji’s face says that his brother isn’t going to let that happen so easily.

Genji’s not going to let him exit the Food & Crafts building without saying _something_ to the cowboy, at least. He makes that silent challenge clear, waggling his eyebrows as he brushes his green hair out of his face. _Talk to him._

Just the idea shouldn’t make him blush so, and Hanzo frowns pointedly in Genji’s direction. “Let’s go,” he all but grumbles, turning on his heel to stride back into the main hall, past the snaking line of competitors with their baked goods and crafts. His heart’s already starting to pound, and he hasn’t even spotted the cowboy again.

Hanzo clenches his hands, pulls back his shoulders. He isn’t afraid of conversation, much less conversation with a person who just happens to be attractive in all of the ways that he, personally, finds attractive. Hanzo is smart and he’s a damn good baker, and he can be conversational. Genji can just _watch._

The cowboy is just outside the door now. Like a magnet his eyes slide to Hanzo, even as he’s mid-conversation with Mrs Stevenson and her adorable basket of jam. His smile grows as Hanzo approaches, one arm coming up to push his hat further back on his head, eyes lingering on Hanzo in a way he can’t be misreading as appreciative. There’s no other word for it.

The movement makes his shirt stretch across his chest and arms, too. The cowboy _must_ know what he’s doing, how good he looks in the golden fall sunlight. Someone’s stacking the deck against him, Hanzo thinks.

He swallows thickly, fighting back the instinct to just walk by and stay silent, to duck his head rather than meet the cowboy’s eyes. But he can feel Genji’s gaze on the back of his head, feel the silent judgement and the threat of imminent, relentless teasing if he doesn’t at least _try._

Already today he’s baked the perfect Genoise sponge cake, he tells himself. What could be so hard about a conversation?

“Entering the competition?” Hanzo asks, pulse jumping in his throat but voice steady. He nods to the box in the cowboy’s hands, slowing as he gets closer and crossing his arms over his chest. “Baking?”

“Sure am,” the man drawls, and _fuck._ He’s got the look and the voice, all long-drawn Southern vowels, smoother than the bakery’s signature mousse. Up close Hanzo can see that his eyes are a warm brown, narrowed slightly in amusement and glimmering with something he can’t quite identify. The corner of the cowboy’s mouth tips up into a smirk. “I reckon you’re some of my competition?”

“Perhaps,” Hanzo replies mildly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Mrs. Stevenson looks between the two of them, watching their interaction play out with patient maternal amusement. Her eyes - as do Genji’s - flick between the two of them like she’s watching a tennis match, and Hanzo fights down his unease.

Conversation. Flirting. Right. He can do this.

He lets his mouth smooth into a smirk of his own. “I have every intention of coming out on top.”

The cowboy’s eyebrows rise, nearly hidden by the mop of hair stuffed underneath his hat. “Do you, now? We’ll have to see what happens come tomorrow.”

“We will,” Hanzo says firmly, flicking the draping tails of his scarf over his shoulder.

“Well,” the cowboy chuckles, fingers tucking into his belt loops - and drawing Hanzo’s attention to the gleaming gold belt buckle, and the undeniably good fit of his jeans. If Hanzo’s face wasn’t on its way to red already, it is now. “I suppose I’ll see you first thing in the morning, then, if you intend to be here for the judgin’.”

Hanzo’s eyes snap up to the cowboy’s again; he’d been _caught looking_. His saving grace is that Genji’s behind him rather than at his side. There’s no way for his brother to know that the cowboy has noticed Hanzo eyeing him up.

Not that Hanzo expects to live this down, anyways.

“I do,” Hanzo settles on saying, uncrossing his arms to shove them in the pockets of his jacket. He starts to walk away, tossing a final smile over his shoulder at the cowboy as he does. “And you will.”

The cowboy tips his hat again, grinning, and Hanzo turns away before he does something like fall flat on his face in front of the entire line. Genji trots to keep up with his hurried strides, laughing once they’re far out of earshot of the Food & Crafts building.

“A for effort, Hanzo,” he chuckles, elbowing him gently in the side. Genji’s smile looks like it could split his face in two. “You didn’t get his name _or_ his number, but at least you’ve got another chance in the morning! Icing on the cake with your blue ribbon, huh?”

“Icing on the cake,” Hanzo snorts, combing his loose bangs away from his face. His cheeks still feel hot against his fingers. Genji radiates smugness at his side, and Hanzo can _feel_ his own flush spreading down his face to his neck, his nape prickling with heat even in the aftermath of the conversation. Not to mention the cowboy’s lingering gaze.

Genji keeps up an enthusiastic stream of encouraging words all the way back to the van - about both the cake _and_ his conversation with the cowboy. His brother always seems know exactly when to be encouraging. It’s reassuring, to have Genji by his side. He probably wouldn’t have said anything without a nudge in the right direction.

And Hanzo hadn’t made _that_ much of a fool of himself, in the end. But that was definitely enough human interaction for one day.

Hanzo stews in his thoughts all the way back to the bakery - the crooked, cocky smirk on the cowboy’s lips, the way his eyes had flicked down to Hanzo’s crossed arms and chest, the undeniably attractive twang in his voice.

If nothing else, it’s better than worrying about cakes.

 

Mei drops by in the afternoon, when Hanzo’s three cookie sheets into a triple-batch of macarons. She brings two pints of her home-made ice cream with her, though she claims that only one is for Hanzo and his stress. The other, she says, is for her.

Hanzo knows that she’ll leave both pints at the bakery, because she’s a good friend, but not after putting a sizeable dent in it first. Chef’s prerogative, after all.

“Black sesame ice cream?” he asks as he opens the first carton, bringing the pint up to his nose and inhaling the familiar scent. “Fresh? You didn’t have to go out of your way.”

“I knew you would be needing a pick-me-up,” Mei smiles, bouncing up to sit on the edge of one of the metal-topped counters and reaching into the drawer below for a spoon. It probably says something about their friendship that they have each other’s kitchens memorized. She pops the lid off the pint in her hand with the spoon; the ice cream inside is a beautiful, even pink, and she digs into into cheerfully. “Genji says you’ve been grumpier than a bear these past two weeks while finalizing your submission to the fair.”

“I have not,” Hanzo grouses, but not before Genji skips towards them from the other side of the kitchen, fresh plates in hand.

“Hanzo is an _otter_ , not a bear,” he quips to Mei before rounding on his brother. “But you _were_ getting short-tempered. Good thing this will all be over in less than a day, hm? You’ll regain your crown, get that blue ribbon, and all will be right in the world.”

Mei giggles. “I hope so! It feels like I haven’t seen you in so long, Hanzo. You’re always so busy when the fair comes around. When was the last time you came into my shop?”

“Too long ago,” he admits, sliding his spoon into the delicately grey ice cream. It was thoughtful of Mei to make a fresh batch of his favorite. And it has been too long since he’s been by to see her at _Blizzard_. Now that the competition is all but over, he’ll have more time. “I will remedy that as soon as I can, Dr. Zhou.”

“You had better!” Mei says around her spoon, feet swinging merrily. “You haven’t seen my liquid nitrogen setup yet. Besides, who else is going to taste-test my latest flavors?”

“Not me,” Genji groans, putting up a hand when Mei tilts her ice cream towards him. “I’ve eaten more than my fair share of cake lately.”

“I did warn you,” Hanzo chuckles.

“I know,” Genji whines, but then perks up, sitting up straighter against the countertop next to Hanzo. “But speaking of bears, did Hanzo tell you about the cowboy he met in line for the competition at the fairgrounds?”

Oh, god, not this already.

Mei glances between them, a small smile growing on her face at Genji’s obvious delight and Hanzo’s sigh of resignation. A blush is already starting to creep onto his cheeks, he can feel it. “Now _this_ I have to hear about.”

Genji launches into the story, and Hanzo directs all his attention into attacking his ice cream with renewed vigor. Except, of course, when Genji starts embellishing the truth too much, and he has to cut in to correct him. His brother talks with his hands, painting Hanzo in a rather favorable light despite the digs at his attempts at flirting and his rather obvious attraction to the cowboy.

Mei meets his eyes and gives him a wink, tapping her spoon to her lips as Genji goes on, and on. Wordlessly, she reaches across the space between them to offer him a scoop out of her pint, which he does with a grateful smile. She’s a loyal friend, for all that she enjoys lightly teasing him, too.

Hanzo slips his spoon into his mouth, blinking as he realizes that the pink ice cream isn’t just strawberry. It’s thicker, almost custardy, with crunchy chunks of stick-shaped biscuit swirled into the base.

Strawberry pocky. Another one of his favorite treats - a comfort food he rarely indulges in, as a baker of so many other desserts and sweets. Mei giggles when she sees the slow-dawning look of recognition on his face and reaches out to swap their pints.

He’s lucky to have her as a friend. It’s a rare gift, to know someone who recognizes what he needs before he does, and provides it without judgement. Mei’s presence, as much as her ice cream, is a balm on Hanzo’s anxious, tired mind.

  
Hanzo sends her home with half of the macarons in a ribbon-wrapped box, just for that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time seems to crawl when he’s checking the clock every few minutes, as it ticks closer and closer to the hour. But then there’s the sound of a throat clearing behind him and a gentle hand on his elbow, and Hanzo turns to find himself face-to-face with the cowboy.
> 
> The _cowboy._ The baking cowboy. Hanzo almost could have convinced himself that the entire interaction was a figment of his imagination, if Genji hadn’t also been there as a witness. Besides yesterday he’s never met a cowboy that can bake - definitely not one that looked like he walked right out of the pages of a magazine. The kind of magazine that Hanzo would guiltily hide rather than immediately throw away.
> 
> “Hey there,” the cowboy says, hand dropping from Hanzo’s elbow; immediately, he misses the heat of the contact, as light as the touch had been. 
> 
> “Hello,” Hanzo replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for a fantastic response to chapter 1! I'm really excited to be sharing this next part. Not only do I get to share this for Day 3 - Alternate Universe - for McHanzo week, but the Overwatch comic that just came out features Hanzo in the same panel as a _cake_ , which I'm taking as proof of Hanzo's sweet tooth. As a writer of a bakery story, that was particularly exciting to me. Anyways, happy McHanzo week and I hope you enjoy this next chapter!!
> 
> All my love again to Thea and Purin. They didn't laugh at me when I said I wanted to edit this in time for day 3, which was like...four days ago. They're the best.

 

 

The morning dawns bright and clear, a crisp autumn chill in the air that hadn’t been there the day before. Hanzo pulls his hair up into a ponytail and winds a thicker scarf around his neck to brave the cold outside, the pit of his stomach already clenching with nerves.

The hard part - the baking - is done. He’s proud of what he submitted. He’s going to win.

He would feel a lot better if telling himself that was more convincing.

Genji’s already got two travel mugs of tea ready when Hanzo joins him in the kitchen, similarly bundled up for their trip to the fair. He takes Hanzo’s quiet solemnity in stride, providing a cheerful stream of running commentary as they have a light breakfast and head for the fairgrounds.

Hanzo mostly tunes him out; he’s too much in his own head, anyways. A month’s worth of preparation and a year’s worth of competitive righteousness went into that cake. It all comes down to the judging that will take place over the course of the next two hours.

And on top of that: what if he sees the cowboy there, as promised?

What if he _doesn’t?_

Hanzo hasn’t decided which situation would be better or worse when Genji turns into the fairgrounds parking lot. It’s only a few minutes before they’re walking towards the entrance along with an excited, upbeat crowd. It’s the first day of the fair, after all. There are animals to see and pet, fried treats and foods of all kinds to try, and rides that light up in every color once nightfall comes.

The baking competition will be long finished by then, Hanzo thinks, but he’s always been fond of ferris wheels. And, he can admit to himself, he could be persuaded to spending a day at the fair, provided that he had good company.

The fair’s been open for two hours already, so there are plenty of people wandering the stalls and milling through the exhibition buildings as they make their way towards Food & Crafts. There’s half an hour before the judging is set to end - an excruciating half-hour before they take to the stage and announce the winners of the baking competition. Hanzo doesn’t envy the people that have submitted quilts and needlework and other crafts. The judging for those categories can take days, and he feels like he could crawl out of his skin after only 24 hours.

There are a few neat rows of folding chairs set up in front of the raised stage, the art exhibitions and crafts on display lining the walls. Hanzo’s anxious to sit, instead strolling through the crafts, staring up at the intricate quilts above them. They hang from the ceiling so that both sides of the blankets - and the dedicated craftsmanship that it takes to create such detailed pieces - are on display.

Time seems to crawl when he’s checking the clock every few minutes, as it ticks closer and closer to the hour. But then there’s the sound of a throat clearing behind him and a gentle hand on his elbow, and Hanzo turns to find himself face-to-face with the cowboy.

The _cowboy._ The baking cowboy. Hanzo almost could have convinced himself that the entire interaction was a figment of his imagination, if Genji hadn’t also been there as a witness. Besides yesterday he’s never met a cowboy that can bake - definitely not one that looked like he walked right out of the pages of a magazine. The kind of magazine that Hanzo would guiltily hide rather than immediately throw away.

“Hey there,” the cowboy says, hand dropping from Hanzo’s elbow; immediately, he misses the heat of the contact, as light as the touch had been.

“Hello,” Hanzo replies.

“Fine day for a fair,” the man tips his hat back with one hand, the other settling on the thick cut of his hip. He’s still wearing jeans and a button-down shirt that looks temptingly soft, a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth that bounces when he talks. Hanzo watches, nearly mesmerized, as the cowboy’s tongue flicks out to adjust where it sits between his teeth.

It’s too early for this.

He tears his gaze away from the toothpick and the mouth it occupies, glancing about the room, at the people milling about. There are a few standing and talking, as they are, and a few that have settled in to wait for the judging announcements in the rows of chairs. Already there’s something of a crowd starting to gather, and they’re in the middle of it.

“It is,” Hanzo replies, meeting the cowboy’s eyes again. Half an hour to go, so maybe it’s not a bad thing to be meeting him here as a….distraction. “Confident in your baking skills, still?”

“You bet I am,” the man chuckles, scratching his metal fingers along the edge of his well-defined jaw, through the bristly hair of his beard. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m all hat and no cattle, but my cake came out mighty fine. Ain’t seen something that sweet in a long time - besides present company, that is.”

Hanzo flushes, his cheeks and the tips of his ears heating as they turn pink. Waiting for the judging to start, on pins and needles with anticipation - _that_ , he can do. Retain his composure in the face of the cowboy’s bright smile and shameless flirting? Not so much.

Genji’s just barely in his line of sight, visible only out of the corner of Hanzo’s eye. Of course, when he catches Hanzo glancing his way, he gives him two thumbs up.

Hanzo’s clearly on his own with this.

“Will it be as sweet when I have won?” he hears himself ask, flashing a small smirk in the cowboy’s direction. From so close Hanzo can hear the slight intake of breath and see the darkening of the man’s eyes at his words, at the undeniable challenge he’s given.

The man bites his lower lip, smiling. “I have a feeling _sweet_ isn’t always your style,” he says, thumbs hooking in his belt just as he’d done the day before. Hanzo glances down; up close he can read the block letters spelling _BAMF_ on his belt buckle, too. The cowboy’s grin grows wider, twisting into a bit of a smirk. “Besides the cakes, of course. But I’d certainly like to find out one way or the other, darlin’.”

Hanzo quirks an eyebrow, refusing to acknowledge the way his face burns a little warmer at the endearment. The undeniable swoop of his stomach is probably nerves from the competition, after all.

He’s been waiting for this moment all year, since the previous baking competition. This is his chance at redemption, at reclaiming the crown of the best baker in the county. It’s a title only the winner of the county fair can hold. He’s waited a year and spent hours upon hours at work. Early mornings and late nights, scrapped ideas and _tons_ of flour and sugar went into his masterpiece. It’s all led to him to standing here, awaiting the results.

Somewhere in the back rooms of the Food & Crafts building, the judges are tasting and deliberating over the cakes. Soon enough they’ll be mounting the stairs to the stage, clipboards in hand, to announce the winners.

How can a ten-minute conversation with this _cowboy_ be more exciting than that?

“Would you?” Hanzo tilts his head, combs his fingers through his loose bangs to brush them out of his eyes. “You’re certainly welcome to _try_.”

There’s a flash of something in the cowboy’s eyes, and he dips his chin, leaning a little closer so they aren’t overheard. Their shoulders brush. With a start, Hanzo realizes that the hall is nearly packed with fairgoers. He hadn’t even noticed, as absorbed in their conversation as he was.

But he’s drawn back to the cowboy’s grin when he licks his lips, opening his mouth to say-

A burst of static and the high-pitched whine of feedback echoes through the speakers, interrupting whatever he was about to say. The noise cuts as a woman on stage fiddles with the microphone. She sets it in place on its stand and adjusts the drape of the cable so that the whine stops, and the hall goes quiet.

She taps on the microphone with the tips of her fingers and, satisfied that everything is in working order, shuffles closer to speak into it. “Good morning, everyone! Welcome to opening day of the 85th Annual King County Fair! Now, here in the Food & Crafts building, we’re a few minutes away from getting started announcing the results of the first round of judging. First up is the food and baking competitions. This year’s categories include: Homemade Preserves & Jams, Bread, Cookies, Sponge Cake…”

Hanzo exhales through his nose. His heart’s already increasing its tempo in his chest at just the name of his chosen category. There’s a light touch on his shoulder and then Genji’s at his side, giving him a nod and an encouraging smile as Hanzo tries not to let the tension in chest lock up his shoulders.

Spine stiff, feet planted, hands balled at his sides - Hanzo is ready. This is it. The waiting is done. The judging is finished.

There’s only one part left.

On his right, the cowboy looks a little more relaxed - though perhaps not by much. The toothpick is flicking up and down as he chews on one end of it, and his fingers tap a restless rhythm against his denim-covered thighs. Hanzo holds the slip of paper - the one emblazoned with a large number six - between his finger and thumb like a talisman. It takes effort not to run his fingers over the creases where it’s folded.

On-stage, the announcer flips through the pages of her clipboard. The paper slides together noisily, audible over the speakers. “Right, so if all the competitors have their numbers…” she smiles out at the crowd, pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “I know this is what you’ve all been waiting for, so let’s get started!”

There’s a murmur from the assembled crowd as she turns away from the microphone to join the group of women onstage presiding over a long table. It’s covered with carefully organized ribbons of all colors, white and yellow and red and blue and purple.

And - at the center of it all - the shining silver plate, engraved with the beautiful, curled cursive letters _Best of Baking, The 85th Annual King County Fair._ It gleams under the warm lights of the stage, the centerpiece of all the prizes and awards. Silver has never looked so gorgeous.

It’s going to look good on the shelf behind the main counter at the bakery, Hanzo can just tell.

The judges go through the categories alphabetically - saving the best for last, of course, because there’s no sparing a moment for the sake of Hanzo’s blood pressure. The blue ribbon for Cookies goes to Janet Allaire, who Hanzo actually knows from the bakery; five categories later, Mrs. Stevenson teeters on stage to receive first prize for the basket of various preserves she’d brought in the day before.

Hanzo watches her carefully descend the stairs, ribbon in hand, with no small amount of envy. His stomach is clenched in anticipation, twisted in knots as they get closer and closer to the end. Sponge Cake is last on the list.

“And finally,” the announcer smiles, peeling back the last page on her clipboard with an air of ceremonious finality, “what you’ve all been waiting for, the category that takes the cake: Sponge Cake, of course!”

Hanzo forces his hands to relax their white-knuckle grip. Genji squeezes his shoulder, a steady presence at his side. It all comes down to this.

“We had quite the turnout this year, folks,” the head judge shakes her head, smiling, “you should have seen the amazing cakes we received! But there can only be one, and this year’s winner receives not only the ribbon for the Sponge Cake category, but will also take home this gorgeous silver plate for Best in Baking! I’m delighted to tell you that….”

Her papers shuffle again, and Hanzo could _scream_. Or vomit. Or both. He doesn’t; his heart’s in his throat, pulse hammering. He’s nearly vibrating with anticipation as the announcer leans back towards the microphone again. He breathes in, holds his breath. This is it.

“...Our winner is number seven, Jesse McCree!”

_What?_

There’s a roar of applause, but Hanzo can barely hear it for the pounding of his heart in his ears. What? What just happened?

The paper slip with the bold number six crumples in his fist. He exhales hotly, vision nearly swimming. For the second year in a row, he’s been bested as his own craft - by fucking _Jesse McCree?_

Genji’s hand on his shoulder clenches down, grounds him as he sways in shock. The hole opening up inside of him at the shock of losing quickly fills with white-hot anger, frustration at himself and this _housewife_ or _soccer mom_ or whoever-she-think-he-is beating him at his own game. After all his hard work, the plate is going home with _someone else_. The crown of the King County Fair remains usurped.

But then, as awareness creeps back into his mind, he sees that the cowboy next to him has ducked his head. The cowboy’s face flushes as he looks down at the slip of paper in his hand - his own entry number.

“Aw, shucks,” the man mumbles, and there’s a bitter twinge of relief, of commiseration in Hanzo’s mind that at least the cowboy’s in the same boat as him.

But then he looks up with bright eyes and _beams_ at the woman on stage.

Hanzo glances again at the paper in the cowboy’s hands. It’s adorned with a large number seven.

His anger flashes hot and then cold, creeping down his spine in a sudden shudder of ice. He stands frozen as the cowboy - Jesse McCree is _the cowboy,_ the cowboy is _Jesse McCree_ \- slides through the crowd. It parts for him easily as he ambles towards the stage, taking the stairs two at a time with those long, denim-clad legs.

Jesse McCree shakes the judges’ hands, delighted laugh loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the crowd, accepting the silver winner’s plate with a gracious smile and a cheerful wink.

Deep in his gut, Hanzo’s disappointment curdles, a bitter film of disgust coating his tongue. He can’t help the searing flood of resentment in his chest, the sting of the betrayal somewhere between his ribs. He can barely breathe from it.

He barely hears his own name being called as the runner-up. A smattering of applause runs through the crowd, but it’s already starting to disperse now that the biggest prize has been announced. Genji slips around to face him, putting both hands on his shoulders now, thumbs pressing firmly into the meat of each deltoid.

“..zo. _Hanzo_ ,” Genji doesn’t shake him, but his eyes flick back and forth between Hanzo’s, eyebrows pinched into a frown and lips pressed pale and thin. “Are you all right?”

For all that his rage and frustration and shock had been blinding, he’s slowly coming back to himself. Hanzo can hear the chatter of the room again, the haze of anger at the edge of his vision receding. He blinks back to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m-” he starts, taking a breath that halts, stuttering, in his chest, “fine.”

It’s a blatant lie. Genji doesn’t call him on it. Hanzo’s heart is still thudding out a heavy tempo in his chest, but now it _aches_ , something deep in him clenched tight and bruised from the blindsiding defeat.

Already there are little voices in the back of his head, thready whispers of what he did wrong. He should have checked the cake after transport, before leaving it to be judged. He should have done something more creative with the frosting, with the way he cut and decorated the fruit; he should have-

Over Genji’s shoulder, he watches as Jesse McCree faces the crowd, posing with the silver _Best in Baking_ plate, cheeks taut and pink with a wide smile. He looks over the crowd, and his eyes find Hanzo’s for a brief second.

Hanzo almost rocks back, as if it’s a physical blow. His heart skips stupidly in his chest, pulse tripping over itself. Because Jesse McCree is on stage, the rightful winner of the award Hanzo’s been after for a year with the vigor of a baker scorned, and Hanzo _still_ finds him to be irritatingly, irrevocably attractive.

He’s the first to look away. Hanzo averts his gaze to Genji as his face regains some of its natural color. The anger simmers lower as exhaustion - physical and emotional - taking its place. Genji’s expressions softens, anger melting away to just concern. He turns Hanzo away, pivoting them towards the building’s entrance.

“Yeah, c’mon, we’re out of here,” he says, a protective arm thrown over Hanzo’s shoulders. He wades them through the throng of people and away from the gathering near the stage. Hanzo’s ears are still ringing and he moves mechanically, one foot in front of the other, even though he can’t really feel them.

What he does feel he clutches close to his chest. There’s a throbbing anger in his head, a bitter disgust worming its way deeper into his gut - but more than anything, the disappointment that stings behind his eyes. It keeps his throat closed with emotion.

Hanzo doesn’t really remember walking out of the fairgrounds afterwards; it’s only in the car on the drive home that he can finally let his shoulder droop, leaning his overheated forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window.

He’s not sure what hurts more: the sting of losing at his own craft, or the fact that twice in a row, now, he’s been beaten by a man that dresses as a cowboy.

A cowboy that, despite himself, Hanzo hoped he might have half a chance with.

He exhales a deep sigh, slumping further into his seat and closing his eyes.

The worst is, actually, how much he’s disappointed in himself.

 

Hanzo sees the picture in the Tuesday newspaper that week: Jesse McCree, the handsome cowboy that is, apparently, not only a skilled flirt but an even better baker. He poses with the silver plate held in front of him - strategically covering his belt buckle, Hanzo notes with a snort - and, in front of that, his winning cake. It’s sitting in the honored place, on a stand in the center of a table of blue-ribbon baked goods and crafts.

Hanzo’s fingers clench on the newsprint. It’s a lovely angel food cake.

It’s _lovely,_ and that makes it all even worse. The photo isn’t the same as seeing the cake in person, but with a professional’s eye Hanzo can tell that the sponge is a perfect shade of pale golden brown, uniform and light. The fruit and jam between its layers have started to stain the cake a delicious, syrupy reddish-purple. It’s raspberry, from the soft shape of the fruit, with perfectly thick cream that’s just starting to ooze out of the sides and slip down the sides.

The article underneath is only a few paragraphs long, but it makes note that both the jam and cream were homemade. Spiced raspberry jam with fresh raspberries, vanilla bean in the cake itself and in the hand-whipped cream-

Despite himself, Hanzo’s mouth waters. _Damn this Jesse McCree._

 

Even in the face of such dramatic loss, life goes on.

As much as it nearly turns his stomach, Hanzo lets Mei and Genji drag him back to the fair the next weekend. Not because it’ll cheer him up, because it _won’t_ , but because not going to the fair means missing the once-a-year opportunity to gorge on the tasty, fried, delightfully unhealthy food without remorse.

And there’s no reason to let this year’s baking competition suck the joy out of the rest of the fair too, Mei argues.

She’s right, but Hanzo can’t help but glare at the Food & Crafts building as they walk by.

Getting out does him good, though, as Genji had insisted. It still stings - it’s going to sting for a while - but already the heat of anger has boiled away to annoyance and disappointment. The weight in his chest is starting to lighten, at least when he can get his mind off the memory. Mei and Genji do an admirable job of making that happen as they stroll through the exhibition halls and stop by food stall after food stall for snacks.

Food is something Hanzo can always come back to, even when his own baking didn’t make the cut. There’s something comforting in familiar favorites - even favorites one can only get once a year at the fair - that’s a balm on the soul. Mei knows it, too; that’s why she’s so good at making ice cream.

Hanzo knows it, too. It’s why he makes some of their favorite comfort food dishes in the following weeks. It’s warranted, after such a loss, and Genji’s never one to complain about his childhood favorites.

Baking is chemistry, careful measurement and application of heat that’s only mindless when it’s memorized and perfected. Even then, Hanzo doesn’t let his concentration falter when so much rides on the precise weight and volume and temperature. But _cooking_ \- cooking is more forgiving. He can let himself relax into the motions, experiment with flavor, get lost in the soothing rhythms of dicing and stirring and slicing.

So when Genji texts _Tamago kake gohan?_ right before he leaves the shop on a Wednesday evening, Hanzo finds himself taking the long way home. Because of course, when Hanzo had easily agreed, his brother had informed him: _We r out of eggs tho._ He attaches a little string of egg emojis to the end of his text, and Hanzo rolls his eyes.

He navigates the bulky bakery van through the colorful tree-lined streets to the supermarket, twisting up the dial for warm air. The van never heats as quickly as his actual car. Thankfully, it isn’t a very long ride.

The grocery store has a cheerful display of hay bales and pumpkins out front, wreaths made of gem-like indian corn and scarecrows with denim shirt-arms waving in the gentle breeze. Leaves crunch under Hanzo’s feet as he heads inside, tugging up the zipper on his sweatshirt a he does so. It’s only another week or so before Halloween, and the nights have already started to take on the chill of fall turning into winter.

But the store is brightly lit and warm inside, the comforting scents of fresh produce and bread chasing away the chilly scent of autumn on the night air. Bread - hm, now _that’s_ something he hasn’t made by hand in a while. Usually at the bakery it’s a task picked up by one of his assistants while he focuses on the pasty items. Hanzo tucks the idea into the back of his mind.

He walks by the fresh bread on his way to the back of the store for eggs, basket tucked into the crook of his arm. It never hurts to have a look and get inspiration, after all.

Stomach grumbling, Hanzo leaves behind the mouth-watering golden loaves for the refrigerated section, hunger quickening his steps. He sets his basket down to pick up a carton of eggs, flipping open the cardboard paper top to examine each egg in turn, making sure none are damaged and cracked. His fingers are careful and gentle against the smooth, cool surface of the shells.

There’s the squeak of wheels on linoleum and the metallic rattle of a cart to his right, and Hanzo shifts so he’s not standing dead-center in front of the eggs. There’s a muttered _thank you_ , and he tilts his head, glances up through his bangs as he brings the last egg out of the carton to check its underside.

He almost drops the egg in surprise. It’s the _cowboy_.

 _Jesse McCree_ , his brain supplies helpfully, and he has to deliberately prevent himself from accidentally crushing the egg between his fingers. The suddenness of his anger - which had been cooling over the past couple of weeks, but blazes to life again now - surprises him, and there’s no stopping the strangled sound that makes its way out of his throat.

He stands there, consumed with a flash-point rage he can barely vocalize, holding an _egg_ between forefinger and thumb and unable to move as Jesse McCree finally looks his way.

The recognition is instant. A smile floods onto the cowboy’s face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud as he looks over Hanzo head to toe. McCree leans forward, resting his forearms on the plastic handle of his shopping cart as he meets Hanzo’s eyes. His hat’s in the cart’s child seat.

“Look who it is,” Jesse McCree says, voice warm and on the edge of flirtatious. It makes Hanzo’s blood boil, though he’s helpless to control the way his cheeks heat from the attention and the cowboy’s whisky-smooth accent. “Two weeks felt like an awfully long time without the chance of seein’ you again.”

“Jesse McCree,” Hanzo manages to grunt, nearly choked by his anger. His deep-set frown and the frosty glare he sends Jesse’s way doesn’t seem to register with the man - or, just as likely, he’s decided to ignore it. The fingers of his left hand dig into the egg carton, nails biting into soft cardboard paper.

“I’d been hoping to find you after they’d finished announcing the winners of the baking contest,” he continues, smiling and oblivious to Hanzo’s visible agitation. God, did the man ever shut up? Hanzo’s chagrined that he could once find - that he _does_ find - the man attractive, despite his stupid cowboy getup and incessant flattery.

And do they not sell flannel button-downs in a size that properly fits across his well-muscled chest?

Hanzo stays stonily silent, refusing to reply out of spite and a distinct lack of knowing what to say. Jesse McCree doesn’t hesitate to keep talking. “You disappeared like smoke, though, couldn’t see hide nor hair of you once I’d got my blue ribbon. I know you submitted a cake too, partner, I hope there’s no hard feel-”

There’s a soft crack, and the egg in Hanzo’s hand crumples inward underneath his thumb, the shell giving in to the pressure. His thumb squishes into the snotty liquid of the white and Jesse McCree shuts up, both of them staring at the broken egg. Hanzo’s thumb is embedded in it up to the first knuckle.

“Well,” Jesse McCree says slowly - apparently, for once, lost for words.

Hanzo looks between the carton of eggs in his left hand and the egg, broken and oozing, under the thumb of his right. He forces himself to relax the claw-like grip he has on the carton, his cheeks starting to burn.

He has no idea what to do with this.

Jesse McCree is mute as Hanzo casts around for what to do with an egg - but it’s an egg, and it’s broken, so there’s only one thing Hanzo _can_ do. He slides the egg, crushed and leaking, from his finger and back into the carton. He has nowhere to wipe the gooey whites clinging to his finger, so he ignores it as best he can despite the cold, slick feeling of the slime.

There’s always a carton that the cracked and broken eggs end up in, as people check their dozen and swap broken eggs for whole ones. So Hanzo shifts his carton to rest between his forearm and hip, flipping the lids of two cartons open before he finds the box for duds.

“Um,” Jesse McCree coughs, “Can I-”

The look of hostility Hanzo shoots over his shoulder makes the words wither in the cowboy’s mouth. Hanzo returns his attention to the eggs before his face gets even redder. More white and yolk leaks onto his fingers when he swaps the broken egg in his carton for one of the unblemished ones. At this point the mess on his hand is honestly the _least_ of his worries.

As if losing a competition for _baking_ , his chosen profession, wasn’t enough. Hanzo making a fool of himself in a grocery store, with the eggs, in front of his _sworn rival_ is the weirdest way this could have gotten worse.

He’d sigh if he could relax his chest enough to fully exhale. But every muscle in Hanzo’s body is strung tighter than a bow with unease and embarrassment and anger. The best thing he can do is to remove himself from the situation. If he can get the fuck out of here, at least, he can’t embarrass himself any further.

It’s not a strategy Genji would be proud of, but it should work nonetheless.

“So, um-” the cowboy tries again, watching as Hanzo gently sets the carton of eggs back into the refrigerated display and picks up his empty basket from the floor.

“Excuse me,” Hanzo mutters, turning on his heel and purposefully striding away. He escapes from the eggs and dairy section as quickly as he can without going from _power walking_ to _full-out jogging._ The further away he gets, the more anger clouds his mind, the flush on his face spreading down his neck. Behind him, Jesse McCree calls something, his cart rattling as he brings it about to try to catch up - but Hanzo’s moving too fast, unhampered by a shopping cart filled with groceries.

He leaves the plastic basket at the entrance and walks out of the store empty-handed, a frown creasing his face. He stalks past the fall decorations, the hay bales and piles of leaves and those smug fucking scarecrows that stare at his back as he retreats.

Hanzo slams the van door behind him when he climbs inside, heart pounding. Thankfully, Jesse McCree had given up chase when Hanzo had swept out of the store in a wave of righteous fury and annoyance - annoyance both at himself _and_ the cowboy. He resists the urge to bang his fists on the worn faux-leather of the steering wheel.

Genji’s going to have to deal with having no eggs for the night. There’s only so much that Hanzo can take, after all.

Genji finds Hanzo’s grocery store horror story about meeting the cowboy is far worth the price of having no eggs. Genji nearly laughs himself off the couch, actually, when Hanzo tells him what happened. Hanzo snorts at him, mussing up his younger brother’s hair as he walks by for his trouble. Some things never get old, especially because of Genji’s amusing reactions to it.

Hanzo watches with a hidden smirk as Genji tries to keep from slipping off couch without letting his precariously-perched laptop submit to the force of gravity along with him. It’s a lost cause, but Hanzo refuses to feel bad about it.

It takes Genji days to stop giggling at every mention of eggs.

 

Bread does turn out to be a good idea.

As far as bakeries go, the Shimada bakery tends to center on the production of pastries and other sweets and treats.  Hanzo and his staff keep the cases at the front of the shop filled with beautiful, delicious desserts that please the eye as much as the mouth. They produce cakes and tortes, a dazzling variety of glossy-glazed, golden delicacies like croissants and cream puffs and strudel, cookies and cupcakes with perfectly-piped frosting in colors and flavors not available anywhere else. Hanzo has made a name for himself in supplying the best baked treats around.

They do sell bread, but it’s not the star of the show. But bitten by inspiration, Hanzo can’t let the idea drop from his mind - not until he makes more of it himself. And that’s exactly what he does.

There’s a unique satisfaction in coming back to dough that’s been left to proof and finding that it’s risen just as planned, the air thick and warm with the smell of yeast and flour. Hanzo punches down the bubbles of air, kneads and re-shapes the dough. Next, he’ll return it to its bowl and let it rest and rise again. Coming back to the bread every few hours provides a comforting rhythm to the course of his day.

Hanzo would be lying if he said that the chance to really use his muscles, to take out some of his stress on the dough, doesn’t leave him satisfied as well. Encounters with cowboys be damned, he’s good as his craft. He’s not going to stop baking because he’s had an embarrassing defeat and an even _more_ embarrassing run-in with said cowboy at the local grocery store.

If he hasn’t been back to that grocery store since, that’s his business.

He’s just dusted his workspace and hands with flour and turned the latest batch of sourdough out onto the table when Genji pokes his head into the kitchen. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, eyes glittering mischievously. Hanzo barely glances at him until Genji clears his throat, leaning against the side of the doorway as he waits for Hanzo’s full attention.

The only thing that _deserves_ Hanzo’s full attention right now is this dough. “What?” he asks, forearms straining against his rolled-up sleeves as he starts to knead. Several pounds of dough are always a bit of a fight to work with, a challenge that Hanzo relishes. His arms will be tired by the time he’s done, but he doesn’t mind the burn of a good stretch and knead.

Genji runs his fingers through his messy green hair - the roots are starting to show, dark coming in close to his scalp, and he hasn’t gotten around to taking the time to properly color it again. As always, he strings Hanzo along in hoping that this time, he’ll just let it all grow out and go back to black. His mouth quirks into a knowing smile. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Can it wait?” Hanzo grunts, locking his arms and using his shoulders and chest to guide the movements of his hands. He bears down on the dough with his palms, folding and molding and stretching it against the floured tabletop. The tang of yeast and ferment fills his nose, warm and homey. “You can see I have my- _ungh_ , hands full.”

“Weeeell,” his brother draws out the vowel, cocking his shoulders at an angle. Hanzo looks up from his work with narrowed eyes. Genji only ever uses that tone for when he’s got something up his sleeve.

True to form, Genji waggles his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to see who it is?”

“ _Whoever_ it is should know that asking to see the owner of a bakery, and forcing him to pause in his work, will only result in a grumpy owner and an imperfect recipe,” Hanzo frowns in concentration as he returns his attention to the dough ball. “If they’re willing to wait, then I will see them when I have finished with-”

“You’re always grumpy, Hanzo. But let me rephrase,” Genji sighs dramatically,  pushing away from the wall and approaching Hanzo with a sly grin. “You’re going to want to see who it is.”

Hanzo reaches out when Genji’s within arm distance, swatting at his brother’s clean, dark apron to leave a partial - but still incredibly obvious - handprint in flour on his front. Genji’s quick enough on his feet that Hanzo only catches the side of his apron. His fingers trail on the sweater Genji wears underneath as well as on the navy cloth of the apron itself, but Hanzo still chalks it up as a victory. That’s what Genji gets for being a coy pain in the ass.

“Hanzo,” he whines, hastily wiping and patting down his apron to shake the flour loose. It only sort of helps. Hanzo smirks. “Get out of this kitchen and go see who’s waiting for you!”

“All right, all right,” Hanzo claps his hands together to shake off as much flour as he can, wiping his hands on a cloth and looking forlornly at the dough. It should be fine for the five minutes he’ll be gone. He tightens and adjusts his ponytail - may as well, he’ll have to wash his hands when he returns to the kitchen anyways - and heads for the front of the shop.

Genji doesn’t follow, smirking at Hanzo as he makes a beeline for the refrigerators at the back.

“No touching that dough,” Hanzo warns, pointing a threatening finger, “and no getting into Mei’s ice cream!”

Hanzo’s almost at the doorway, and Genji’s smile is only growing wider as he gets farther away. “Now why would I do that?” he calls back, grinning. “Go see to your guest, brother!”

Hanzo sighs, tucking stray hair from his bangs behind his ear as he enters the shop-front. He takes his place behind the counter and the rows of treat-filled display cases, warm with glowing. There’s only one other person in the shop. The man has his back to the cases, though, examining the row of framed newspaper and magazine articles hanging around the front door.

“Can I help you? Mr.- ” Hanzo begins, and the words freeze in his mouth as the man turns.

It’s Jesse fucking McCree.

Jesse _fucking_ McCree, whose face lights up in a smile as soon as he catches sight of Hanzo behind the counter, hat off and pressed politely to his chest. It makes his shoulders and biceps strain against his plaid flannel in an infuriatingly attractive show of how thick they are. Must he continue to be annoyingly good-looking every time Hanzo encounters him? Hanzo’s temper flares just at the sight of him.

This is _his_ bakery, his shop. He won’t let his anger at Jesse McCree get the best of him here. He’s a professional and he can _be_ professional _._ Hanzo grits his teeth. He’s a master of his craft, and he can be the master of his anger.

“Well, hello there,” Jesse McCree says, striding over to the counter with a sunny grin. He jingles when he walks; when Hanzo peeks down, he spots silver at the man’s heels.

Spurs. Jesse McCree wears _spurs_.

“I had a feelin’ I’d be able to find you here, but it was just a guess,” he says. He’s still got his hat pressed to his heart. “If I’d known you were Hanzo Shimada, the owner of the Shimada bakery, I wouldn’t have spent most of October around town tryin’ to find you when you’ve been here all along.”

“Can I help you?” Hanzo asks waspishly, ignoring the fluttering in his chest at the thought that Jesse McCree’s been trying to find him. He chastises his heart, willing his pulse to slow and the spreading blush to fade from his cheeks. Jesse McCree is his _rival_ , no matter how handsome he is. Hanzo is achingly aware that he’s up to the elbows in flour, fair mussed from working all morning and then pulling his ponytail tight again.

The cowboy’s eyes still flick up and down his form. McCree drinks in the sight of him like he can’t get enough - which is absurd, seeing as they’ve met only a handful of times, and _none_ of those encounters are what Hanzo would call particularly _enthralling._ Even his attempts at flirting - _before_ he knew that the cowboy was Jesse McCree, mind you - were on the _awkward_ side of _awkwardly cute._

At least, that’s what it was according to Genji’s expert opinion. He may be eating Hanzo’s ice cream, but Hanzo trusts his brother’s viewpoint on flirting, at least.

Jesse McCree’s smile only fades a little at Hanzo’s sharp tone. “I was hopin’ to apologize,” he says, combing his hair out of his eyes with metal fingers. It’s oddly satisfying to see, for once, the start of a blush on the cowboy’s face. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “I don’t know what I said or did the other week, t’ make you so upset in the store, but you ran outta there like a scalded haint. It doesn’t sit right by me, to know I offended without getting the chance to apologize for it.”

Hanzo presses his lips into a thin line, eyes narrowed at Jesse McCree. It’s an honest enough reason - Hanzo has no cause to suspect him of lying - even if it’s another reminder of The Egg Incident.

“Your apology,” he grunts, crossing his arms, “is accepted.” The words taste only a little bitter in his mouth. He’s accepting the apology for what happened at the grocery store, nothing more. It doesn’t change the fact that this cowboy - no matter how _well-meaning_ or _apologetic_ or _good-looking_ he is - still took the Best in Baking prize that was rightfully Hanzo’s. There’s still a place on the shelf behind the bakery counter that’s missing a silver plate, after all.

Jesse McCree pulls a face, lips thinning out into a frown that’s partially hidden by the scraggly growth of his beard. On that count, at least, Hanzo can safely feel superior. Has the other man never seen a razor?

Stubble’s a good look on his strong jawline, but _still_. Hanzo’s embarrassed at himself for finding Jesse McCree’s face so pleasant to look at. He should really have better taste - and fewer charitable feelings towards the man he considers his _rival_.

“That’s mighty fine of you to say,” Jesse McCree replies, thick eyebrows slanting into a frown over his dark eyes, “but for some reason, I’m not convinced.” He tips his face forward to place the hat back on his head, even though they’re inside, and when he looks up to meet Hanzo’s gaze again there’s a challenge in his eyes.

“I don’t know what else you are expecting to hear besides the fact that your apology is accepted,” Hanzo says tersely, pulling the hand-cloth from his shoulder to wipe the flour off his fingers. It gives him something to do without having to meet the intensity of the cowboy’s gaze, at least. His stomach clenches, throat warm and pulse pounding. “On that, you will simply have to take my word.”

Jesse McCree doesn’t answer. He casts his eyes about the shop, skimming across the rows and rows of sliced cakes and tarts and pastry creations. He takes in the menu board hanging behind Hanzo, the bakery logo in navy and gold - the twin dragons circling each other, the symbol of the Shimada family.

“That’s how I found my way here, y’know,” he finally says, nodding to the hand-painted sign of the bakery’s name and logo over Hanzo’s shoulder. “That day, a few weeks back in the supermarket. You were wearin’ a sweatshirt with the dragons on it. Figured if you had something with the logo on it you worked here, or knew someone who did. Didn’t expect you to own the place.”

“I’m surprised that you noticed,” Hanzo admits begrudgingly. Although, if Jesse McCree had followed him outside that day, he would’ve seen the logo plastered on the side of the van as well. He wouldn’t have had any doubts about how to find Hanzo then. That big, the dragons in the logo are roughly the size of poodles.

“Hard not to notice everything about a man that crushes an egg in his bare hand, darlin’,” Jesse McCree smirks. Hanzo freezes in place, face going hot with what feels like the entire force of an industrial baking oven.

Vaguely, from far away, he can hear Genji snorting through a fit of giggles.

“Anyways,” the cowboy continues, ignorant or impervious to Hanzo’s mounting annoyance, “if I’d known you owned the place, I would’ve stopped by sooner. Been meaning to check out the place for years, seeing as I have a fondness for baking m’self.”

Hanzo pointedly doesn’t shout in frustration. Like he couldn’t figure out the cowboy liked to bake?

“We have been the community’s top choice for a bakery four years running, since we opened,” Hanzo says instead, keeping his arms crossed firmly in front of him. He’s glad that there’s the barrier of the counter and dessert cases between them. It means he’s less likely to jump over and throttle the man with his own ridiculous poncho.

“All the same, shame on me for not tryin’ it yet,” Jesse McCree says, calm and cordial and still all smiles. “Would you pick out something for me to try, Mr. Shimada?”

“Hanzo,” he finds himself saying, unbidden - and to his own surprise. “Shimada Hanzo.”

“Nice to finally make your acquaintance properly,” McCree tips his hat, eyes gleaming from underneath its brim and the messy flop of his bangs. “Hanzo.”

Something flips in Hanzo’s stomach at the sound of his name in the cowboy’s low southern drawl, a bolt of something bright and electric that runs up his spine and makes his ears burn. He hadn’t given the cowboy explicit permission to use his given name, but there’s no denying that it sounds good on Jesse McCree’s lips.

Hanzo busies himself with picking out one of the freshest hand-made desserts for the cowboy to try, hiding his spreading blush by ducking behind the cases that are, conveniently, chest-high on Hanzo. The crinkle of wax paper in his hand is loud in the quiet shop as he retrieves one one of the delicate, golden _sfogliatella_ he’d finished that morning. The crisp outer layers - almost paper-like in thinness, like the dense pages of a water-warped book - give a little under his careful touch. Powdered sugar rains down on his bare hand as he extracts it from the case.

Jesse McCree observes him as he deposits the wax-paper envelope into a paper bag with the bakery’s logo stamped on the front, and then folds down the top of the bag with practiced fingers. Hanzo catches cowboy’s eyes dart to the flecks of powdered sugar dotting his hands. He fights down the swell in his chest, the hyper-awareness that prickles at his scalp. Being under the spotlight of Jesse McCree’s full attention shouldn’t feel like this.

It’s not altogether an unpleasant feeling, which makes it all the more important to resist. _Rival._ He’s Hanzo’s sworn _rival._

“Now what’s this?” McCree asks when Hanzo places the bagged parcel on the counter between them, smile wide and eyes bright with curiosity. He reaches out for it when Hanzo motions for him to take it, brushing his loose bangs out of his eyes again.

“A surprise,” Hanzo replies, confident. If the cowboy’s come to be impressed, he’s going to be impressed. No one in town makes sfogliatella like Hanzo does; he knows because he’s tried them all, and his is undoubtedly better. He lets himself smirk at McCree’s delighted curiosity, watching as he picks up the bag and gives it a sniff. “One I’m sure you’ll find pleasant.”

“Much obliged. I’m lookin’ forward to finding out,” Jesse McCree pulls out his wallet, spreading a few neatly-folded bills on the counter and picking out exact change, the paper bag tucked under the crook of his arm. He grins as Hanzo rings him up. “Don’t you be surprised to see me ‘round these parts again. If this tastes anywhere near as good as it smells, I’m sure I’ll be back for seconds.”

“It does,” Hanzo says with certainty, the smirk never leaving his face, “so _I_ am sure you will be impressed.”

Jesse McCree’s grin couldn’t get any wider if he tried, the corners of his eyes pinched with crow’s-feet and his cheeks pleasantly pink. “Well, I’ll just have to report back on how I found it, then,” he says, taking the bag in hand as he stuffs his wallet into his back pocket and adjusts his poncho around his neck, preparing to go back out into the cold. He takes one step backwards and then two, spurs jingling, as if he can’t bear to turn around and break Hanzo’s gaze. Despite himself, Hanzo feels his mouth soften from a smirk into a smile.

Jesse McCree tips his hat one more time. “Take care now, Hanzo.”

He holds up his hand in a parting wave and Hanzo does the same. McCree finally turns and pushes open the front door, the bell chiming just as merrily as the man’s spurs. Hanzo swallows thickly, resting his sugar-dusted hand against his thumping heart. He lets out a sigh as Jesse McCree crosses the street outside and disappears from sight around the corner.

Hanzo’s in trouble now.  


 

“This,” Genji says between giggles, red-faced and almost tipping over from his perch on the counter, “is the _funniest_ way you’ve ever made a friend. _Ever_.”

“Jesse McCree is not a _friend,_ ” Hanzo nearly spits the man’s name, and he sends a glare Genji’s way that would make anyone else keel over dead. Genji manages to not even fall off the kitchen island.

“If you say so,” he grins, feet swinging. “I’m not sure what else you call a guy that still wants to attempt to spend time in your company after you crushed an egg in his face. A lesser man wouldn’t have even wanted to _try_ to find you after The Eggcident.”

“ _Genji,_ ” Hanzo groans. “That is awful. You cannot keep calling it The Eggcident.”

“Can and will!” Genji chirps. “Besides, am I right or am I right? He wouldn’t have looked all over town for you if you hadn’t made _some_ kind of good impression, even if it wasn’t at the grocery store. What does that make him besides a potential friend? A potential _suitor?”_

“Still a rival,” he grunts, stalking past Genji to his workstation. He refuses to let his brother’s gleeful teasing affect him. The fact that his heart skips a beat at the word _suitor_ is just because - because he still hasn’t settled down after seeing this man, his _rival,_ in his own bakery. Anyone would be worked up after such a confrontation.

“Uh-huh,” Genji wrinkles his nose, smirk still firmly in place and tone skeptical.

Hanzo turns back to his dough, dusting his hands with flour with possibly more violence than necessary. These volatile moods aren’t like him. One should not want to simultaneously throttle and flirt with the man one considers a rival. The dough, at least, doesn’t complain or question his judgement as he takes out his frustration through kneading, turning the dough over in his hands again and again as thoughts churn in his mind.

Genji watches with lips pursed in a knowing smile, and it’s just as damning that he doesn’t say anything else when he slips off the counter and goes back to the front of the shop, resuming his duties at the storefront as Hanzo bakes. Hanzo has plenty of time to examine and reexamine his interaction with Jesse McCree as he kneads batch after batch of dough, working until his knuckles are sore and his shoulders strain with the movement.

There’s nothing he could have said or done differently, in the face of such a surprise. He’d never expected to see Jesse McCree in his bakery - he’d never even thought that the man might be looking for him. What was it about the cowboy that is so magnetizing, that Hanzo finds so attractive despite how much he detests him?

He doesn’t end up with any more answers by the time the rolls go into the oven. They come out perfectly, though, and he lets himself have one of the rolls fresh, slicing it open and buttering it while it still steams. It’s crunchy and golden on the outside, pocked with minuscule bubbles, and soft and hot crenelated on the inside.

Hanzo tells himself he deserves a treat, even if it isn’t a sweet one.

It’s been that kind of day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr as [venvephe](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/) and on[twitter](https://twitter.com/ven_writes) as well!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo sighs, placing the last of the cookies in the box and gathering his thoughts as he slides the back of the display case closed. What would be the harm in telling her? He knows the motherly look in her eye; she’s not one to turn a deaf ear to gossip, but she’s also not the type to give bad advice, if he asked her to listen. He certainly couldn’t do worse than asking advice from Genji. Which he hasn’t.
> 
> “It’s Jesse McCree,” he admits, unwinding a length of string to tie around the box and secure its contents. “The winner of this year - and last year’s - baking competition at the King County Fair.”
> 
> “Oh!” Ana smiles, eye flicking between the box of cookies and Hanzo’s face, the corners crinkling with years of laugh lines. “Well, I am glad you are making friends with a fellow baker.”
> 
> Hanzo pauses in knotting the bow, string wrapped around his fingers in careful loops. “We’re not _friends._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely delighted to be sharing the next chapter of this fic with you!! It's quite long - the length of the previous two chapters combined! - so I really hope you enjoy reading through it! A few more of your favorite characters make their appearances here as well, though I won't spoil it - read for yourself! 
> 
> Thank you for the many marvelous comments on the previous chapter!! They are a huge part of what keeps me inspired to work on this story and see what happens next. Your kindness and support is a bright spot on my day whenever I see something in my inbox!! ♥♥♥
> 
> With that: enjoy!

The threat of the cowboy’s return hangs over Hanzo like a cloud for days before the man himself finally shows up at the bakery again.

Hanzo doesn’t know if it’s a bad thing or a good thing, to be so expectant of Jesse McCree’s return. On the one hand, he knows his baking is good - _better_ than good. He doesn’t need Jesse McCree’s approval to have confidence in his own skills and know that he’s the best baker in town. Even if - even if he doesn’t have the silver plate from the county fair, the success of his bakery and the dozens of regular customers that they have is evidence enough that he’s a master of his craft.

On the other hand, Hanzo wants to know what the cowboy thinks. More than that, Hanzo wants him to be _impressed._ It’s a matter of pride at this point. If his work doesn’t impress his rival - then, well, Hanzo hasn’t gotten the true measure of the man from the few times they’ve seen each other.

  
But no one comes back to the bakery after trying his _sfogliatella_ to tell him that it wasn’t very good.

That’s why his heart leaps into his throat when he sees a familiar silhouette approach the bakery. The bright swath of the man’s poncho-thing is clearly visible, even through the frosted glass of the bakery’s front door.

It helps that Jesse McCree is never to be seen without his trademark hat - and, okay, Hanzo’s been taking more shifts at the front of the shop for nearly a week now, waiting for his return.  Hanzo’s almost relieved to see him. Whether or not his rival liked his baking, at least Genji won’t be able to tease Hanzo about his anticipation any longer.

Hanzo closes the local newspaper he’d been reading, folding it in half and then in half again as the bell chimes above the door. Jesse McCree swipes his hat off his head as he enters the bakery, loosening his poncho from where he’d had it tucked about his face to keep away the chill. With Halloween behind them the days have only gotten colder and shorter. Hanzo already arrives at the bakery in the morning _and_ leaves it in the evening under a blanket of darkness.

The days felt even longer, though, as he waited to see when his rival would show his face again.

“Good afternoon,” Jesse McCree says, shooting Hanzo a smile as he tucks his hat under his arm - and promptly does a double-take when he catches sight of Hanzo’s face.

 _Ah, right._ “Hello,” Hanzo replies in kind, slipping his reading glasses off his face as casually as he can, folding in the arms and slipping them into the front pocket of his apron. McCree’s still staring and Hanzo watches with a small smile as the man visibly shakes himself out of his stupor.

“Been meaning to stop by for a few days,” McCree lets the door shut behind him with a gentle clang and approaches the counter - which is when Hanzo notices that his hat isn’t the only thing tucked underneath his arm. “But I didn’t want to show up empty-handed, after the treat you gave me last time.”

“What do you mean?” Hanzo asks, swallowing as the cowboy draws closer. It’s not that McCree’s intimidating - though undoubtedly he has a few inches and ten pounds on him, Hanzo can’t help but note - but Hanzo’s never met someone with so much presence before.

And just the breadth of his shoulders, _Christ._

His rival - his _rival,_ Hanzo reminds himself - sets down an honest-to-god basket on the counter between them, careful to avoid Hanzo’s newspaper. It’s brown wicker, obviously well-kept, and there’s strip of red-and-white checkered cloth peeking out one of its flaps.

Forget the county prize for _Best in Baking._ There’s no way Jesse McCree is anything besides the perfect embodiment of the American dream.

No fucking wonder he won the previous year with apple pie.

“Well, that _sfogliatella_ was the best thing I’d put in my mouth in more than a month,” Jesse McCree says, and Hanzo’s brain sputters to a halt. From the way McCree’s smile shifts into a smirk, McCree notices the way Hanzo’s eyes widen and cheeks pinken. “I know I rightly paid for it an’ all, but I thought I’d bake you something to return the favor.”

Hanzo’s tongue works in his mouth as he tries to come up with a response. His mind’s still stuck on the shameless, deliberate innuendo. He clears his throat. “There was really no need- ”

“Nonsense!” McCree chuckles, undoing the latch on the basket and flipping open the lid with a flourish. “I had some time on my hands to bake and no one else I’d rather share it with. C’mon, give one a try while you tell me the secrets to whippin’ up such a mighty fine Italian pasty.”

“Secrets?” Hanzo smiles despite himself, leaning in to peer at the basket’s contents. Whatever it is, the thick, sweet scent of chocolate wafting from inside makes his mouth water.

“Ain’t nothing short of magic, getting pastry sheets that thin,” Jesse McCree shakes his head. His eyes follow Hanzo’s hand as he dips it into the open basket and pulls out a perfect chocolate macadamia nut cookie. “And that filling was certainly more than just ricotta and somethin’ orange.”

Hanzo hums, a small grin still dimpling his cheek. He avoids answering by bringing the cookie under his nose, breathing in the delicious scent of fresh-baked chocolate before he takes a bite. The dough is just the right amount of crisp on the outside, chewy in the center with lumps of chocolate that still haven’t fully cooled: fresh-baked indeed. The nuts provide plenty of crunch, but the biggest surprise is the burst of spices on his tongue. It’s not just chocolate in the dough but cinnamon, a touch of allspice. He takes another bite as soon as he’s swallowed the first, closing his eyes to better analyze the flavor.

A twist on something considered a modern classic. It’s a page right out of his own book.

“These are quite good,” Hanzo admits, cookie half-gone and chocolate smeared on his fingers where it’s been warmed by his skin. The complement is almost a painful thing to say to his rival, but Hanzo can’t help but acknowledge good baking when he tastes it firsthand. It only takes another two bites to polish off the rest of the cookie and he sighs, eyes slipping closed again when he takes the final bite.

“Forget whatever secrets you have for _sfogliatella,_ ” McCree grins, resting one elbow on the dessert case and crossing his legs at the ankle. “You can go ahead and keep ‘em. That’s what I really wanted to see.”

“What?” Hanzo asks, eyes blinking open. He raises an eyebrow at McCree, bringing up his hand to lick the traces of melted chocolate off his fingers. It wouldn’t do to wipe them on the spotless white of his apron, after all.

It’s unprofessional, but it’s worth it both for the last taste of chocolate and for the way McCree’s suddenly, undoubtedly distracted. His eyes lock on Hanzo’s lips and a blush starts to form high on his cheeks, all from the glimpse he’d gotten of Hanzo’s tongue.

Huh. There’s that tell-tale swooping feeling somewhere around Hanzo’s stomach again.

But Jesse McCree recovers enough to give him a smile. “The look on your face, when you first bit into that cookie. You’re a man that knows his way around an oven, so it’s quite the thing to see you experience that first bite and enjoy it so much. Been hopin’ to catch that smile again.”

Hanzo blinks. And then frowns, as the full force of a magnificent blush heats his face. He tries and fails to glare at the cowboy. Jesse McCree just grins back at him, sunny and charming and nearly bursting out of his plaid flannel button-down. His poncho’s half-tossed over his shoulder like a cape.

This rival business would be a hell of a lot easier if the man himself wasn’t so attractive.

Face aflame, Hanzo sighs and reaches for another cookie. He can’t come up with a response for that, so the next best thing is to have a second helping of chocolate. McCree watches him with clear delight written on his face, scratching idly at the corner of his jaw as Hanzo takes a large bite.

He absolutely _will not_ _moan_ at the decadent flavor, but it’s a close thing.

Hanzo ponders as he chews, pulling the cookie into two pieces and observing the perfect way the molten chips create threads of chocolate as it’s pulled apart. He slips one half into his mouth before any more of it gets on his fingers.

“Cloves,” he finally says, mustering up the courage to look Jesse McCree in the eye again. “A mixture of ricotta and custard, not one or the other. And a little candied ginger, as well as candied orange peel. The _sfogliatella_ filling was too flat in flavor without it.”

Amusement and understanding spark in McCree’s eyes, and he hums thoughtfully. “Ahh, so that was the kick of spice I tasted. Candied ginger - clever. Haven’t had the stuff in so long I didn’t recognize what it was.”

“It goes into a few of our recipes,” Hanzo admits, polishing off the last of the cookie as McCree speaks, chewing carefully. “I am rather fond of it as well.”

“Now that sounds about right,” the cowboy says, pushing off the dessert case to stand upright again with an easy smile. Hanzo definitely doesn’t watch the muscles in McCree’s visible shoulder work as he straightens. He _does_ actually wipe his fingers at the corner of his apron this time. “I don’t need this back right now - I’ll come for it in a few days, all right?”

McCree gestures to the basket, closing the lid carefully and doing up the latch so that he can safely push it across the counter, closer to Hanzo. The smell of cookies still lingers in the air. Hanzo closes his hands around the sides of the basket, feeling a faint warmth from the fresh baked goods inside. “Thank you. They will not last long.”

“Try not to eat ‘em all at once,” McCree chuckles, fiddling with the brim of the hat in his hands. “That green-haired fella can have a few too, if you’re willing to share.”

“Genji? He would eat all of them, if he had the opportunity,” Hanzo snorts. Genji manages to restrain himself with the baked goods in the dessert cases - they’re for customers, and their livelihood after all - but anything else homemade is fair game. “I will endeavour to keep him from gorging himself.”

“Mighty kind of you to share with your employees regardless - though I daresay there’s more than enough in there to go around,” McCree plops his hat back onto his head, tilting the brim back so that he can still meet Hanzo’s eyes. “Why don’t you pick out something for me to take on the road, before I take my leave?”

Hanzo smiles; now that’s an easy request to fulfill. He pulls a fresh wax-paper envelope from the box behind the counter, glancing across the rows of treats and tarts for something that will, again, impress. “Genji is my brother, as well as employee. Is there anything in particular you are craving?”

When he glances over the counter at the cowboy, there’s a gleam of mischief in the man’s eyes, something dark and suggestive in the slant of his smirk. The tips of Hanzo’s ears go pink as his pulse ticks up again, and he swallows around the tightness in his throat. That innuendo had been _entirely_ unintentional.

Hadn’t it?

“I reckon I’ll try anything you think I’ll like,” McCree says simply, though the smirk stays firmly in place on his lips. Hanzo’s eyes linger there, on the soft swell of his upper lip partially hidden by the bristly hair of his mustache.

Eclairs it is, Hanzo decides, pushing his traitorous thoughts away. He retrieves one of the pastries from the case, careful not to smudge any of the glistening, perfectly-smooth icing on the top. McCree’s fingers brush his as Hanzo hands over the bag, and it’s a small miracle that Hanzo doesn’t jump a foot in the air or pull his hand back as if scalded.

McCree’s fingers are warm, bigger than Hanzo’s, thick and sturdy where they curl around the top of the bag. The impression of his touch - casual and fleeting as it was - lingers on Hanzo’s skin, a sense memory as he rings up the eclair, a comfortable silence settling over them.

“I’ll be back by the end of the week for that basket,” Jesse McCree says, readying himself for the crisp chill outside and giving Hanzo a parting grin. “Take care of yourself ‘til then, y’hear?”

Hanzo stays in place behind the front counter until the bell above the door stops jingling. The red-clad figure of Jesse McCree heads down Main Street, and quickly disappears from sight.

He pushes down the insistent skip of his heart at how much that sounded like a promise.

 

 

 

Hanzo lets Genji have exactly five of the double-chocolate macadamia nut cookies. It’s a compromise to get him to stop saying _The Eggcident_ with such annoyingly dramatic emphasis.

It’s worth it, but only because there’s another dozen cookies Hanzo gets to keep for himself. He has the last one on a quiet afternoon between the midday rush and afternoon tea, as a treat for finishing all the dishes. He’s careful to not let a single chocolate crumb go to waste.

“ _Marhabaan_ , Hanzo!” a cheerful voice rings out, accompanied by the merry tinkling of the bell above the door. She’s always loud enough that Hanzo can hear her, even when he’s in back dealing with the stand mixers.

Hanzo wipes his hands and heads for the front of the shop, not at all surprised to see the short silhouette of one of his favorite regulars through the glass dessert case. There’s no one else it could be; no one else has such a commanding voice for such a slim frame.

“Miss Amari,” he greets with a smile, resting the dishcloth over his shoulder as he approaches the counter. “It’s been too long since I’ve helped you with your sweet tooth.”

Ana laughs, brushing her braid over her shoulder as she returns his grin. “Hanzo, we’ve been over this - Miss Amari is my _daughter_. You can always call me Ana. And there’s no need to remind an old lady of her vices - I remember why I’m here, after all.”

“Of course,” Hanzo chuckles, “my apologies. Do you know what you would like today?”

“Let me look,” Ana hums, crouching to peer into the cases. The soft lights brighten her face as she gets closer. “It takes me a little longer to see everything, you know. You always have so many choices!”

She gestures to her face in jest, smiling, though she doesn’t take her eye off the array of sliced cakes and pastries and cookies. Her eyepatch is mostly hidden by her white bangs, but Hanzo’s used to the sight of it by now, anyway.

“Are you buying for just yourself, or for the kids?” Hanzo teases, crossing his arms.

“Why can’t it be both?” Ana asks breezily, “Besides, how do you know that I don’t _say_ I’m buying for the kids and just keeping all of the cookies to myself, hm?”

“It would be a large amount of cookies just for you,” he points out, smirking, “as school nurse, you would not be setting a very good example by keeping all of them to yourself.”

Ana laughs, tapping on the case in front of her - pointing to the sugar cookies. They’re all cut into fall shapes of pumpkins and leaves and turkeys, decorated with bright icing and dusted with red and orange sprinkles. “As school nurse, I know that a little bribery can go a long way. I’m the _favorite_ , you know.”

“I know,” Hanzo grins, getting out a box. Ana always asks for two dozen - enough to resupply her desk with treats for the children who come to her with skinned knees and bad coughs.

“But enough about me,” Ana steps away from the dessert cases as she watches Hanzo fill the paper-lined box. He’s careful to stack the cookies so that their odd shapes won’t break. “What’s new with you? I’ve heard rumors about a handsome young man stopping by this bakery on more than one occasion in the past few weeks.”

Hanzo nearly drops a pumpkin cookie on the floor. “Where did you hear that?”

“The birds in this town,” Ana waves a hand dismissively, eye sharp and assessing as she watches Hanzo for a reaction. Damn, he forgot how good she was at this. He hasn’t been the object of her scrutiny like this in a while - not since he moved here five years ago, actually, and she was still trying to get a feel for him and his baking. “They sure like to tweet.”

Fucking Genji.

Hanzo grimaces, lips pressed into a thin line as he wills - in vain, it seems - for his cheeks not to flush. “It’s nothing.”

“ _Is_ it,” Ana deadpans, tucking her hands into the pockets of her long coat with the patience of someone who works with ten year-olds on a daily basis. It’s less a question than it is a statement of extreme skepticism, which she’s unusually good at.

Again: ten year-olds.

Hanzo sighs, placing the last of the cookies in the box and gathering his thoughts as he slides the back of the display case closed. What would be the harm in telling Ana? He knows the motherly look in her eye; she’s not one to turn a deaf ear to gossip, but she’s also not the type to give bad advice, if he asked her to listen. He certainly couldn’t do worse than asking advice from _Genji._ Which he hasn’t.

“It’s Jesse McCree,” he admits, unwinding a length of string to tie around the box and secure its contents. “The winner of this year - and last year’s - baking competition at the King County Fair.”

“Oh!” Ana smiles, eye flicking between the box of cookies and Hanzo’s face, the corners crinkling with years of laugh lines. “Well, I am glad you are making friends with a fellow baker.”

Hanzo pauses in knotting the bow, string wrapped around his fingers in careful loops. “We’re not _friends.”_

Eye narrowed shrewdly, Ana revises her opinion: “Ah.”

“Ah indeed,” Hanzo says dryly, resuming his task. “I don’t _want_ to like him; for two years now I’ve lost to him. Not to mention…”

Actually, the fewer people that know about The Eggcident, the better.

“I’m a professional. This is my craft, my pride - to lose to him twice is frustrating, when I work so hard to be good at what I do. I have every reason to hate him. And yet- ”

Ana puts a gloved hand over Hanzo’s, stilling his movements. “Adversity at the start of a friendship doesn’t have to mean the end of one,” she says, and Hanzo frowns. “Ah, ah - I know, I know, you said you don’t like him. Take it from an old lady that grudges can be poison in someone who is otherwise so sweet.”

Hanzo does _not_ think of himself as _sweet,_ but that’s not the point he’ll argue on. “You aren’t an old lady,” he says instead, careful to stop himself from outright grumbling.

Ana’s bright laughter is worth it, her mouth wide with mirth as she puts one hand on her hip, rocking back on her heels. “Oh, Hanzo, you sure know how to flatter. But listen - holding a grudge won’t do. _Awwal alghadab junun wakharuh nadam_.”

Someday, he’ll ask her to write down her proverbs so that he can punch them into Google translate. For now, the advice in English is enough to stew over; he finishes tying the string into a perfect bow and pushes the boxes of cookies towards her, heading for the register and shaking his head. “If you say so.”

“I _do_ say so,” Ana smiles, gathering the box in her hands and giving it a surreptitious sniff when she thinks he won’t notice. “You don’t like him, _and yet._ That smells like something other than hate to me.”

 

 

 

McCree returns for his basket as promised, this time with a tray of blueberry oat crumble bars. They’re all perfectly square, melt-in your mouth sweet, stacked neatly on a floral tray underneath a protective layer of plastic wrap.

Hanzo can’t even say he’s surprised when McCree sets the tray on the counter with a wide smile for them to trade.

“What is it that you do for work, that gives you enough free time to bake?” Hanzo asks, handing over the wicker basket with the clean, neatly-folded checker cloth tucked inside.

“I’m a writer,” Jesse McCree smiles. “Mostly novels - Westerns, which you won’t be surprised to hear. I take you haven’t heard of ‘em?”

Hanzo shakes his head, almost wishing he had. “Running a bakery leaves me with little free time with which to sit down and read.”

“That’s a shame,” McCree still smiles at him anyway, glancing about the shop with a look of warm thoughtfulness on his face, eyes bright with an unasked question. “I write under a pseudonym anyway. Say, you wouldn’t mind me swingin’ by and settin’ up here to write once in a while, would you?”

Jesse McCree hikes a thumb behind him, towards the cluster of cafe tables and cushioned chairs tucked against the front windows. They’re bathed in a wide pool of autumn sunlight, warm and bright despite the obvious chill outside; leaves scuttle on the sidewalk just outside the bakery, tossed about by a biting wind.

It’s early afternoon - still quite early, early enough that the town schools haven’t let out for the day, and the shop is peacefully quiet.

Hanzo finds he can’t come up with a good reason for why it _wouldn’t_ be a good place for McCree to hang out and write.

“Not at all,” he says, fingers picking at the edges of the plastic wrap on the underside of the tray. It’s past lunch, and he hasn’t given himself a break yet. Any moment now his stomach’s rumbling is going to be loud enough for McCree himself to hear.

Hanzo flushes deeper and his stomach clenches when Jesse McCree gives him another one of his trademark sun-bright smile. Arm tucked through his wicker basket, McCree’s eyes twinkle as he spots Hanzo working at the plastic wrap already. “Well, it’s mighty kind of you, but feel free to kick me out if I overstay my welcome. But I’ll come by, so long as you ain’t sick of seeing me yet.”

“Not yet,” Hanzo admits with a wry smile. His heart joins his stomach in attempting various complex acrobatic exercises.

Popping a blueberry-oat crumble square into his mouth as soon as McCree has left the bakery does nothing to alleviate his symptoms.

  


 

 

Jesse McCree stops by a lot more often after that.

The bakery does have a few regulars that like to camp out in the sunny front window. They work their way through various bakery treats as they finish essays, or grade papers, or meet a friend for coffee and a chat. It makes the shopfront lively; Hanzo can hear the rhythmic tapping of keys on a keyboard and the gentle murmurations of conversation even from the kitchens. It’s...nice.

As is the addition of McCree to the regular rotation of bakery visitors.

He’s polite and unobtrusive, the latter of which Hanzo wouldn’t have described his rival as upon pain of death only a month before. (Well - when McCree’s sitting quietly in the corner of the bakery, tapping away at whatever cowboy novel he’s currently writing, he’s not very obtrusive. It’s hard not to be distracted by the man when he’s leaning up against the dessert cases, button-downs stretching obscenely across his barrel chest, watching for Hanzo’s reactions to whatever charming nonsense comes out of his mouth.

That’s an entirely different story.)

Hanzo can’t help it. On the days when it’s his turn to mind the front of the shop and McCree is there, he lets himself watch. McCree doesn’t come in every day - Hanzo would notice if he did. He’s annoyingly aware of the cowboy’s presence even when he’s actively baking. But McCree starts to develop a pattern, a rhythm that shouldn’t be as steadying as it is.

He pushes through the front door, boots jingling, sometime mid-morning. Hanzo’s been baking for hours by then, but McCree makes a point to wave hello if he’s elbow-deep in flour before setting up his laptop and getting to work. Mcree is unusually single-minded - something Hanzo only hears said about himself, but the descriptor seems accurate.  
  
Of course, part of the point of coming to the bakery to write is that it helps to limit distractions, as McCree himself once said. But his concentration on his work is something Hanzo can grudgingly admire.

It also provides ample opportunity for him to observe the cowboy uninhibited. With his poncho lovingly draped over the back of his chair and feet crossed at the ankles, McCree makes quite the picture against the soft blue walls of the bakery. His spurs chime every time he shifts, like a bell on a cat, but Hanzo stupidly can’t bring himself to be annoyed by the sound.

Whatever Genji says, Hanzo hasn’t been scheduling himself to mind the shop front when he thinks McCree will stop by. It’s entirely coincidence. If it happens to be coincidences that keep Genji and his long nose away from the cowboy, well. It’s still just a matter of luck.

Hanzo should have known better than to think that said luck wouldn’t run out eventually.

It’s a Wednesday when he heads to the front of the shop with a tray of fresh-baked ginger-chunk cookies only to hear bickering. He instantly recognizes Genji’s voice fluctuating between amused teasing and exasperation. Hanzo hears it at least twice a day, after all.

What concerns him is that he doesn’t recognize the other voice.

Hanzo steps through the doorway to the shop front to find his brother arguing with a petite, brown-haired undergrad snapping bubblegum every third sentence. There’s a pair of chunky headphones around her neck, partially hidden by the collar of her hot pink bomber jacket. A faint buzz of EDM thumps through them, a quick tempo that seems to match her lively attitude. Her nails are the same shade of periwinkle as the backpack slung over her shoulder, barely zipped and straining over the undisguisable shapes of several thick textbooks.

Everything about her shouts _first semester undergrad at local college_ _not yet taken down a peg by finals_ , and Hanzo immediately likes her. If nothing else, it’s a point in her favor that she seems to be able to rile up Genji.

Both of them look up when he enters the room, but it’s Genji’s smile that grows wider. “Brother! Tell this inexperienced _freshman_ what the real best snack is for all-night studying.”

“I am not going to argue with a customer,” Hanzo nods to the girl, whose eyes gleam in appraisal. He slides open the glass panel at the back of the case so he can start stacking the cookies in their proper place. “It isn’t true for everything, Genji, but when it comes to preferences in baked goods, the customer is always right in their choices.”

“Thank you,” the girl flicks her hair over her shoulder, cocking a smirk in Genji’s direction. “See? You can keep your brownies; if I’m going to make it past midnight, I need something with more punch than just chocolate. I know what I’m doing - I’m a pro, after all.”

“You haven’t been eating the right chocolate, then,” Genji argues, making a sweeping gesture to the dessert cases and their contents. “Desserts can be more than just sweet, you know. And chocolate has caffeine, especially- “

“What do you know about caffeine? Bet you’ve never tried drinking anything stronger than- “

“You want to try me? I went to college and put in so many hours on my thesis that I- ”

“Listen, Carrot Cake,” she interrupts, and Hanzo has to duck his chin to hide his smile at the way  Genji positively squawks, “I have a _routine_. If you think one of these desserts is going to impress me enough to change that routine, then your confidence is higher than my Starcraft ranking. Which is pretty impressive, considering how high my ranking is.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ ” the bubblegum snaps as she pops it with her tongue, rolling her eyes in Genji’s direction. She tilts her chin high, bracing her palms flat on the counter to lean in with a grin.  “I’ll take that bet. If you can pick something out that I like enough to change my snack routine, I’ll give the bakery a shout-out on my weekly stream.”

She sticks her hand out over the counter to shake on it, tipping her head to the side and giving Genji a smirk that’s nothing short of a challenge. Hanzo disguises a chuckle as a cough, holding the empty cookie tray against his hip, watching the scene unfold.

His brother is only a little predictable.

“You’re going to be eating your words,” Genji warns, taking her hand with a slap of skin on skin and shaking it firmly. A full head shorter than he is - not counting the height of Genji’s unruly green hair - the girl grins up at him, undaunted by his confidence.

“Pick out something for me to try and we’ll see,” she says, putting her hands on her hips as she watches Genji whip out a brown paper bag and wax paper, heading for the dessert cases. “Hey - in fact, pick out _three_ somethings. That should even the odds a little bit.”

It’s nothing short of entertaining to watch Genji to go toe-to-toe with someone else. Hanzo could get used to this.

He doesn’t see what Genji chooses, but he can’t help but feel his own confidence bolstered by Genji’s absolute certainty that whatever he chose will make a good impression. The bet is no _Best in Baking_ silver plate, but all the same: his brother’s unwavering conviction in Hanzo’s skill  means a lot.

Genji’s still smirking when the undergrad grabs the paper bag off the counter and breezes out of the shop, short heels clicking on the tile floor. His brother’s eyes stay narrowed as he watches her retreating silhouette - only to shift to something decidedly more keen when he spots someone entering the shop and blocking the girl’s short frame.

It’s just Hanzo’s luck that it would be Jesse McCree.

Hanzo watches with a sinking stomach as Genji’s face morphs into shark-like delight. His eyes cut over to Hanzo as soon as he recognizes the figure in the doorway and realizes who it is. To Hanzo’s knowledge, Genji and McCree have never had a proper conversation beyond McCree asking to speak with Hanzo the first time he’d stepped foot into the Shimada bakery.

He doesn’t want to think about what potential comments Genij could have up his sleeve. He has some kind of inkling, though, from the look of devilish delight on Genji’s face.

“ _Brother_ ,” Hanzo hisses warningly, but it’s too late. McCree smiles and gives them a nod - his hands are full, otherwise Hanzo knows he’d reach up and tip the brim of his hat in their direction - before making his way over to the cluster of chairs to set up for the afternoon.

As soon as McCree takes off his hat, his hair gleams golden with the midday sunlight, and Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat. Genji slants a look at him and Hanzo’s face starts to heat, throat clicking quietly as he tries to swallow down the lump that has suddenly formed.

McCree glances up to catch his eye and beams at him, which doesn’t exactly help.

“A cowboy walks into a bar,” Genji starts, loud enough for McCree to hear, and Hanzo barely resists the urge to slap a hand to his face and groan. “Or would that be a bakery?”

There’s no way he’s getting out of this conversation alive.

“Laugh all you want,” McCree grins, propping open the lid of his laptop and glancing over his shoulder at them. “This particular cowboy knows his way around a kitchen - and he’s a payin’ customer, besides.” Leaning on the table as he is, the pose puts the perfect cut of his jeans on display, the broad planes of his plaid-covered back tapering down to-

Hanzo can feel his cheeks warm even further.

Genji shoots Hanzo a look, waggling his eyebrows in a way that so clearly insinuates _he’d like to know his way around your kitchen_ that Hanzo can practically hear Genji say it.

“You’ve been coming by a lot lately,” Genji remarks, smirking as the cowboy turns to face them properly. Hanzo nearly snorts. As if Genji himself wasn’t gossiping to Mei and Ana and god knows who else about the frequency of McCree’s visits to the Shimada bakery. “I’m surprised we haven’t met yet.”

“Funny thing, that,” McCree tucks his thumbs in his belt loops, taking slow, meandering strides towards the counter - and Genji and Hanzo behind it. Genji’s smile only grows wider. “I only ever seem to see Hanzo here when I stop by. Not that that’s a complaint, mind you.”

“I’m sure,” Genji quirks his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his apron. “I’m Hanzo’s brother, Genji.”

McCree reaches out and offers his hand, and they shake amicably. Hanzo notes the clever gleam in Genji’s eyes with a growing sense of dread, but he drops McCree’s hand easily.

“Younger brother?” McCree asks, and nods to the artfully messy mop of hair on Genji’s head.  It’s carefully styled despite the fact that the roots are coming in dark against the vivid green. Genji grins and nods a yes, running his fingers through his hair and mussing it up even further. “It’s the hair. A friend of mine’s a younger sibling too - she dyes hers bright purple.”

“Sounds like my kind of girl,” Genji smirks, and Hanzo’s stomach drops. He knows that look. “So you’re the infamous Jesse McCree. Hanzo has a lot to say about you.”

Hanzo certainly _does_ have a lot of things to say about Jesse McCree, and clearly it was a mistake to say any of them in front of his brother.

McCree looks between the two of them, glancing away from Genji to smile at Hanzo. For his part, Hanzo could probably burst into flame at this point, he’s blushing so hard. But McCree just grins and scratches at the corner of his jaw, like he does when he’s amused and thinking of a good response.

“Does he, now?” McCree finally says, mouth upturned and dimples visible through the dark hair of his beard. “All good things, I hope.”

Genji’s eyes narrow a little, even as he smiles at McCree in return. “He only let me try a _few_ of your chocolate macadamia cookies. No wonder he wants to trade shifts and keep you all to himself.”

“ _Genji_ ,” Hanzo groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between his two fingers - mostly to hide his face, since it must be as nearly as red as the cowboy’s poncho by now. “Must you?”

“I must - it’s my duty as your brother. And it’s the truth,” he grins, batting his eyes at Hanzo in a pantomime of innocence.

It doesn’t escape Hanzo’s notice, though, that Genji delicately sidestepped answering McCree’s question. Many of the things he’s said about the cowboy, after all, were on the opposite end of the spectrum from _good._

His relief is fleeting, though, because then Genji opens his mouth and says, “I’m impressed you keep coming by, though - even the first time, considering how horribly Hanzo embarrassed himself in _The Eggcident._ ”

“The Eggcident?” McCree repeats, the grin on his face growing wider and wider. “Now that’s something I’ll never forget. Did you come up with that?”

“Of course!” Genji crows, and Hanzo’s ears burn. “Tell me, did he really put his whole thumb through the egg? He could barely look at eggs for a week, you know, he was still so angry at himself.”

Hanzo turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen, sighing even as he feels McCree’s eyes on the back of his neck. No doubt he’s flushed to the nape from Genji’s banter. But he’s got better things to do than listen to Genji tease him in front of McCree, even if it means leaving the two of them together unsupervised.

The cupcakes, at least, won’t give him a hard time for turning a shade brighter than a strawberry.

 

 

 

The next week, Jesse McCree comes in with a plate of mini tarts that smell an awful lot like a bashful apology. He hasn’t brought in anything he’s made himself in a while, content to get a coffee and a snack from the bakery to munch on as he types away. As far as Hanzo is concerned, McCree doesn’t have much of anything to apologize for - the 84th and 85th Annual King County Fair Baking Competitions notwithstanding - but it’s a nice gesture, at the least, for making Hanzo blush so hard he had to leave the room.

Hanzo nibbles at the corner of one as McCree watches in anticipation for his reaction, and he can’t help but smile. The tarts have a perfect balance between the buttery, crisp crust and the tender chunks of peach on top. And the peaches have been grilled, Hanzo notes as he takes a second bite, hastily slipping the rest in his mouth as it starts to leak syrupy juice over his fingers. It’s a good thing, too; peaches aren’t in season, and the combination of the sear and the sweetness of the syrup bring the fruit flavor to life.

He hums around his mouthful, thoughtful and content. McCree’s eyes are locked on his face, a smile playing around his lips as he waits for the verdict.

“You grilled the peaches first?” Hanzo asks, and McCree visibly brightens, shoulders straightening in pride.

“Of course I did,” he says, tipping up the brim of his hat.  “There’s nothin’ so pleasant about peaches as grillin’ them. Any other way doesn’t do justice to Meemaw’s recipes!”

Hanzo pauses in his chewing. “Meemaw?”

“My grandma, on my ma’s side” McCree chuckles, shaking his head. “Her tarts and pies are the best in the whole state - I’m lucky she gave me her recipe so I can make ‘em, too. Not something you see made the right way ‘round here.”

“I see, Hanzo says, licking the sticky juice from his fingers. He glances up at McCree, and this time the cowboy keeps their gazes locked, even as his cheeks start to grow pink. But then his eyes catch on the corner of Hanzo’s mouth and he shifts closer, presses up against the counter.

“You got a little crumb of- ah, here, let me get it,” McCree leans in, and Hanzo’s powerless to move. His heart leaps in his chest as the cowboy’s thumb comes into contact with his cheek, warm and dry and a little calloused. The touch sends a spark down Hanzo’s spine, one that settles in his gut. McCree gently presses as he swipes his thumb inward, barely glancing the edge of Hanzo’s lower lip before he pulls away.

There’s a smear of peach juice and crumb on McCree’s finger, where he wiped it off Hanzo’s mouth. He’s still so close that Hanzo can smell the heady spice that McCree always seems to leave in his wake.

Hanzo can barely breathe. He watches mutely as McCree pops this thumb into his mouth, licking his finger clean.

“Got it,” he says with a smile, and Hanzo _can’t_ be imagining that his voice is a little deeper, a little rougher than it usually is.

“Thank you,” Hanzo says, clearing his throat. His heart drums out a rhythm on the inside of his ribs, his nose still full of McCree’s lingering scent.

The cowboy just keeps giving him that bright smile, mouth cocked crooked as he takes up his usual place against the dessert case.

“So,” McCree says after a beat of silence, “have you really been switching shifts with Genji on days that you thought I’d stop by?”

The only reason Hanzo doesn’t choke on his second tart is because he hasn’t taken a bite yet. He shoots McCree a dark look - one that apparently doesn’t work in the slightest, because McCree just keeps grinning back at Hanzo, sunny but a touch sly.

“As the _owner_ of this bakery,” Hanzo attempts to frown, but it’s hard to in the face of McCree’s amusement. He tips his chin up, sniffing indignantly, “I can be here whenever I please.”

“If you say so, sugar,” McCree smirks, spurs jingling as he turns on his heel. He heads towards his regular table and the patch of afternoon sunlight streaming in from the bakery’s front window.

Hanzo takes another big bite of his peach tart to distract himself from the endearment.

  


 

 

It always happens, this time of year: Hanzo’s personal feelings towards pumpkin as a flavor and ingredient go from anticipation, to neutral, to outright distaste. By the time he’s elbow-deep in making pies before the Thanksgiving holiday, he’s completely sick of the stuff.

Hanzo makes a face as he opens yet another can of pumpkin puree. His nose wrinkles as he scoops the orange paste out of the can and into the oversized bowl in front of him. Today’s pie shells are in the oven for a quick first bake, so it’s Hanzo’s thankless task to whip up batch after batch of pumpkin filling.

He’s nearly at the point where he has all of the spice measurements completely memorized, and he never wants to see a pumpkin - whole or not - again in his _life._ Twenty pies down, dozen more to go.

An upbeat shout from the front of the shop snaps Hanzo out of his pumpkin-hate daze. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, doing his best to get his hair out of his face without touching it, but there’s nothing for it. There’s too much to do; he can’t put down his work to make himself presentable, even for a quick moment to say hello to McCree at the front of the bakery.

But whoever’s working today must have gotten a memo from Genji on who McCree is (and, in all likelihood, gotten the gossip as well) because the cowboy’s head appears in the doorway. He peeks into the back of the bakery with wide eyes.

 _Ah,_ Hanzo realizes. McCree’s never been in the back before.

“You can come in,” he calls, looking up from stirring the thick bowl of pie filling. His arm is certainly going to get some exercise from trying to work the spoon through the dense, wet mixture. It’s hard work, folding and stirring the pumpkin puree so that all of the spices and flavors are totally incorporated. The spatula makes obscene noises as he stirs, but he ignores it as McCree approaches, spurs tinkling merrily.

“Well, ain’t this quite the setup,” McCree whistles, taking in the organized countertops, the industrial-sized ovens and mixers and stovetops that make up the bakery. “You make my kitchen at home look like a campfire setup in comparison.”

Hanzo can’t help but flash him a smile at the mental image that creates. “We hope to have less fire than a campfire, all in all. I had forgotten, until now, that you had yet to come back here.”

“You often seem to be mindin’ the shop when I’m by,” Jesse says, his grin lopsided with amusement. “But this here’s real nice. No wonder you like it enough to be baking here from dawn ‘til dusk.”

“The hours are not so bad,” Hanzo half-shrugs, but his face pinches into a frown as he keeps stirring and studying the contents of the bowl in front of him. “Except for this time of year - between now and the Christmas season, and the New Year holiday. Soon I _will_ be baking from dawn until dusk.”

McCree chuckles, leaning one hip against the counter near where Hanzo works. “Can’t help that people love something nice and baked this time of year - hell, I’m always in the mood for somethin’ sweet around the holidays, guilty as charged. What are you whippin’ up, anyway?”

  
“Pumpkin pies, for the Thanksgiving,” Hanzo gestures to the waiting pie shells, pale golden under the kitchen’s bright lights. “We’ll sell them fresh-made and frozen, so that they can be baked the day of.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence as McCree watches him mix the filling, scraping down the sides of the bowl and stirring in steady, even strokes. The nape of Hanzo’s neck tickles and prickles with little beads of sweat - whether from the exertion or McCree’s presence or both, Hanzo doesn’t examine too closely. Already there’s a tell-tale heaviness to the thud of his heart in his chest. Its tempo always seems to increase in McCree’s proximity.

“Never was a big fan of pumpkin pie, myself,” McCree says, pushing his hair away from his face. He must’ve left his hat out front, with his coat and laptop bag. “But everything you touch turns out so sweet, I’d be willing to try a slice of yours.”

The words aren’t accompanied by a wink, but they may as well have been for the undeniable thread of innuendo in his voice. “McCree,” Hanzo nearly groans, his grip on the spoon tightening as a flush overtakes his face.

McCree laughs, sidling closer. He’s within arm’s reach now, hip pressed against the cool metal of the table. He’s almost in Hanzo’s space - though he’s careful to leave enough elbow room for him to stir.

It’s agonizingly too close and too far.

“What? Can’t I compliment a man’s baking?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest. Hanzo twitches. Surely, at this point, he’s doing it on purpose. There’s no way McCree hasn’t noticed that his shirts, even unbuttoned to his collarbone as they are, strain against the breadth of his chest and shoulders. And there’s no way he hasn’t noticed Hanzo taking surreptitious peeks at the taut flannel every chance he gets - and sometimes when he just can’t stop himself.

“Come on, now,” McCree chuckles, so close that Hanzo can feel the warm exhale of his breath, can smell the musk and spice of the cologne he wears -  or McCree’s natural scent. His nostrils flare and he glares down at the pie filling, jaw clenched under the force of keeping his mouth closed and attempting to fight down his own blush. Even now, as insufferably flirtatious as he can be, Hanzo finds that he can’t help but like McCree. “Surely you know me well enough by now to know that I got a sweet tooth. You’re usually mighty kind to let me have a taste of whatever you’re serving up.”

“Usually you pay for your snacks,” Hanzo points out, slanting a glance up at McCree with a small smile. His hand slows in its stirring, the spoon batting gently against the sides of the bowl as he gets caught in the force of McCree’s warm smile. The dusting of a blush on the cowboy’s cheeks is far too good of a look on him, for how infrequently Hanzo gets to see it.

“Right you are,” McCree hums, as if in thought, but his expression never falters. He reaches up to run his nails through the scruff of his beard along the cut of his jaw, lips twisted to the side in a smile. “If it’s an issue of paying, I can come right out and ask.”

“Ask what?”

There’s a soft jingle of spurs as McCree closes the final foot of distance between them. He puts a hand over Hanzo’s, stilling his motions and, in one smooth instant, capturing all of his attention. Hanzo looks between the large, warm hand covering his, fingers closed over his fist where he holds the spoon, and Jesse’s face. As always, his eyes are filled with amusement and a grin’s on his plush lips - but there’s something softer that he’s never noticed before.

Maybe because they’ve never been quite so close. There’s no bakery counter to separate them now.

McCree clears his throat, gaze intent on Hanzo’s face. “Go on a date with me.”

Hanzo’s mind stutters to a halt.

His mouth falls open in surprise, and he blinks at the earnest, honest expression on the cowboy’s face. McCree’s eyes are still warm and- and undeniably fond, there’s no other name for it than that. But there’s an underlying strain of tension in his neck and shoulders that tells Hanzo that he’s actually _serious._

Hanzo swallows thickly, his focus narrowing to the skin-on-skin contact of their hands. Even in the _kitchen_ McCree’s scent surrounds him and dwarfs all the others. There’s a prickling of heat on the back of his neck from being the sole subject of McCree’s attention. Hanzo’s heart is suddenly loud in his ears, the rush of blood roaring as it pounds out a beat. It’s part surprise and part something he doesn’t he doesn’t know the name of, fluttering in his chest.

His gaze flicks between McCree’s eyes, but there’s nothing he can read besides hopeful confidence and genuine warmth and- and Hanzo isn’t sure what to do with it.

 _Go on a date with me._ It wasn’t a question; it was a request, and somehow Hanzo feels like this has been a long time coming.

It’s a tide he didn’t see until he was more than ankle-deep.

But McCree is his _rival_. Admittedly, he’s a rival that Hanzo himself has come to tolerate. Iin the privacy of his own mind, he can admit that it’s something even _more_ than a bare minimum of toleration. But the memory of the _Best in Baking_ competition still stings. Bitterness rises in Hanzo’s throat as he remembers the cold stab of betrayal in his chest at watching the cowboy move through the parting crowd, hopping up the steps to shake the judges’ hands and hold the engraved silver plate.

The idea of going on a date with the cowboy is far more acceptable now than it would have been even three weeks ago, and Hanzo’s stomach turns at the warring within him. Wouldn’t he be betraying himself, what he stands for as a professional baker, to entertain his rival this way? But wouldn’t it be okay, to give it a try? There’s no denying the visceral reaction he has to the cowboy’s presence: the bright burn of something inside of him, and whatever it is that Genji likes to call _chemistry._ McCree himself is a good baker. And Hanzo still hasn’t looked up Ana’s advice, _awwal alghadab junun-_

McCree clearly takes his stunned silence as indecision, because he leans in to brush Hanzo’s bangs away from his face, tucking them behind his ear. The touch of his metal hand is cool against Hanzo’s overheated skin, and it’s enough to snap him out of his thoughts.

“Just give me a chance,” McCree says, his smile crooked and still so earnest it almost hurts. “Promise it’ll be a good time. I do know a thing or two about pies, if you remember.”

Ah. That’s right.

Hanzo does remember.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for the pie,” he blurts. Something ugly and heavy curls in his stomach as he watches the smile slip from McCree’s face.

It’s the truth - well. Hanzo had thought it was the truth as the words left his mouth. But the ache in his chest only grows as McCree’s expression falls, brows drawing down to furrow and eyes darkening. His hand drops from Hanzo’s; he runs his fingers through his hair as confusion and hurt visibly war on his face.

“Well, shucks,” McCree finally replies, after an agonizing moment of painful silence. He looks down, scuffing his foot on the tiled floor. The spurs’ gentle clinking doesn’t sound nearly so cheerful now. “I didn’t - I didn’t know you were still in knots about that. It was more than a year ago, now.”

“And you beat me again this year,” Hanzo can’t stop himself from pointing out, bitterness lacing his voice, and he wishes he would pull back the words as soon as he’s said them. The pain that flashes across McCree’s face is clearer, sharper this time, before he schools his expression. The look of it is already seared in Hanzo’s memory by the time McCree glances away, looking at everything but Hanzo as he tries to come up with a response.

“I’m not sure that’s something I can apologize for,” McCree says honestly, a grimace pulling at his mouth. He glances back at Hanzo, biting his lower lip between his teeth. Hanzo’s stomach clenches, his hand balled in a claw-like, white-knuckle grip around his spoon. “Especially since it led to me gettin’ to meet you.”

Hanzo grunts, a soft noise in his throat, looking away. His face burns. This conversation was a mistake. Anger still roils in his gut, cramping uncomfortably, his heart pounding heavily against his breastbone. He feels too hot and shivery all at once, a lump in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow around, and there’s a pinching somewhere behind his eyes and nose.

He still hasn’t forgiven Jesse McCree.

“I think,” he says carefully, voice rough even to his own ears, “that I will have to decline your offer.”

The silence between them is deafening.

McCree clears his throat, shifting his weight on his feet again before exhaling messily through his nose. Hanzo can’t bear to look back at him and see the expression is on McCree’s face; he can’t imagine what he _himself_ looks like, right now.

“Right,” McCree finally says, taking a shuffling step away, backing himself towards the open doorway. “‘Preciate the honesty, I suppose. I, um- good luck with the rest of those pies. Sounds like you got your work cut out for you before the holiday.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Hanzo says to the bowl in front of him. Without the heat from McCree’s proximity he’s suddenly chill, a wave of goosebumps breaking out over his skin. His ears feel fit to burst out of his skull with how hard he’s listening as the cowboy moves away. McCree’s reluctant footsteps fade as he retreats into the front of the shop again.

Hanzo swears he could hear McCree murmur something before he turns and passes through the open doorway, but Hanzo can’t bring himself to watch him depart. His eyes burn, shoulders rigid with tension as he tries to breathe through the riot of thoughts in his brain. Is the truth supposed to hurt so much to say?

He’s shaking when he lets go of the spoon, nearly collapsing against the table and breathing hard. His heart still won’t slow. Hanzo props himself upright, both palms flat against the table as he leans on it, nostrils flaring with each breath. They’re rivals. They’re _rivals._ But the piercing pain in his chest isn’t going away, and his stomach doesn’t stop churning when the image of McCree’s pained face flashes through his mind.

It takes Hanzo an extra hour to finish all of the pies. He can barely bring himself to test them, and when he does, he can barely tell how they taste.

 

 

 

“Hey, have you seen the cowboy recently?” Genji asks two days later, helping Hanzo load box upon box of baked pies into the back of the Shimada bakery van. Hanzo’s half-distracted by the cargo in his arms, but the question stings far more than he expects.

He doesn’t reply right away, grunting as he pushes at a stack of pies, rearranging them to sit safely in the bed of the van. At least Genji will be out of his hair for the rest of the day while he’s delivering them; there’s still dozens of pies to make as they get closer to Thanksgiving, and Hanzo needs every spare minute he can get.

“No,” he says reluctantly, trying to keep his voice as calm and neutral as he can. Genji glances his way, eyebrow cocked curiously, but he doesn’t say anything about Hanzo’s curt dismissal.

“Hm,” Genji hums, watching as Hanzo keeps arranging the pies. He’s never satisfied until they’re in an optimal order and pattern. What Hanzo calls simply _geometry_ , Genji calls _Hanzo you’re being a pain in the ass and the stocking the van is not a game of Tetris._ “You haven’t asked to switch shifts with me to ‘keep an eye on him’ lately, either. Did something happen?”

“No!” Hanzo says again, much more quickly this time, and Genji’s eyebrows climb higher. Hanzo takes a breath, willing himself to calm. “No. We have just been busy - you know this is one of the busiest times of year, Genji. I am sure he is busy as well. Things will return to normal, and we will see him again after the holiday.”

At least, Hanzo thinks as guilt and uncertainty gnaw at his belly, he certainly hopes so.

  
  
  


The final week leading up to Thanksgiving leaves them so busy Hanzo barely as time to think of Jesse McCree, with the exceptions of when he’s assembling the many, many apple pies and when he collapses into bed at the end of the day. His mind invariably replays the conversation from that day on loop, a highlight reel: McCree’s adorable, eager hopefulness, his stupidly charming lines, _especially since it led me to me gettin’ to meet you_ -

And his face, morphing from a warm grin to concern and defeat.

Okay, so maybe that doesn’t qualify as _barely any time thinking about Jesse McCree._ It’s a small miracle that Hanzo doesn’t obsess even further; being so busy curtails the impulse to over-examine every moment, every word. Baking, at least, provides him some solace from his own thoughts.

After all, there are only so many times one’s heart can twinge in pain at the memory of McCree’s crestfallen face. Even Hanzo himself has his limits.

McCree hasn’t returned to the shop since- since their argument, since Hanzo turned him down. He can’t blame the cowboy in the least. But there’s an ache that settles under his ribs every time he looks to the warm nook at the front of the shop, the empty cafe tables bathed in sunlight where McCree spent more and more of his afternoons. Hanzo hadn’t noticed how quiet the shop had been before, without the tuneless humming and rhythmic typing he’d come to associate with the cowboy’s presence.

It was calming, for all that the man also undeniably raised his blood pressure.

Genji, for better or worse, doesn’t pry. It’s an unusual departure from his usual _modus operandi_ , and Hanzo’s unsettled by it more than anything. The odd, heavy sensation in his gut and the ache in his chest hasn’t been lessening - quite the opposite - and he knows it’s a matter of time before he breaks down and reveals the whole story. With every passing day, Hanzo’s own words continue to haunt him more and more, echoing and rattling around in his brain during what are usually meditative tasks.

Hanzo knows he’s in trouble when the motions of kneading dough doesn’t provide him its usual stress-relieving comfort.

At least he knows where to find a friendly ear when he really needs one.

The night before Thanksgiving he makes good on his promise to Mei, tucking two pies into boxes and wrapping his scarf carefully around his face to make the walk over to her shop. She’s only across the street and down the block, but with night falling so early, he needs all the protection he can get to ward off the late November chill.

And he’s walking to an ice cream shop, after all.

 _Sweet Blizzard_ ’s lights are on when he approaches, but the sign in the front window has already been flipped to _closed_. It is rather late, after all, and the night before a holiday. Everyone has finished their Thanksgiving food shopping - the bakery closed an hour ago, completely sold out of pies and many of the other desserts they’d made specifically themed for Thanksgiving. Hanzo can see the blurry form of Mei inside wiping down the silver counters.

Mei looks up with a smile when Hanzo knocks gently on the front door, skipping through the tables and chairs to unlock it and let him in.

“If you’re here for some pumpkin ice cream, I’m afraid we are all sold out,” she grins at him, wrinkling her nose at the cold breeze that accompanies Hanzo through the open door. She shuts it firmly behind him, bells jingling festively, and winks. “But don’t worry, I’m sure we have something else you like.”

“How about a trade?” Hanzo nods to the two pie boxes in his arms, and Mei _ooh_ s and jumps forward to slit the tape and take a peek into the top one. Humming thoughtfully, she flashes Hanzo another smile as she closes the lid again with a gentle pat.

“I think we can work out a deal we find mutually acceptable,” she chuckles. “Come on, come into the back. It’s been a while since you stopped by!”

“You know how it is, before Thanksgiving,” Hanzo would shrug, but with his arms full of precious cargo the best he can do is lift one shoulder and offer her a small smile. “I never want to see a pie again.”

“Good thing you’re giving those to me,” Mei laughs, gesturing over her shoulder for him to follow as she goes behind the front counter. She leads him through the neat rows of waist-high freezers, and even further back to where the metal tables and ice cream machines sit, polished to a shine. There’s a slight crispness to the air from all of the refrigeration units, and the lingering scent of sweet cream and warm chocolate. But the shop is all closed up for the holiday, floors clean and sprinkles swept off counters and cones stacked in the case on the counter.

Mei fishes out a plate and spoons - Hanzo doesn’t think he’s ever _seen_ a fork in Sweet Blizzard - and sets about cutting a slice of pie as soon as Hanzo puts the boxes on the countertop.

“So,” she says as she slides the knife through the center of the pumpkin pie, making a neat cut all the way to the crust. “I appreciate the pie, but you’ve got that look on your face.”

Hanzo’s eyebrows draw together in a frown, and he knows he’s glowering a little when he asks, “What look?”

Mei giggles brightly, shooting Hanzo an exasperated smile before tipping the generous slice of pumpkin pie onto her plate. “Not _that_ look, Hanzo. The look that says you want to talk about something, even if you don’t know how to bring it up.”

She lets Hanzo mull this over in companionable silence as she closes the box, shuffling over to one of the refrigerators in her fur-lined boots to pull out a canister of whipped cream. Hanzo’s lips narrow to a thin line as he weighs her words, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

He hasn’t even started talking, has barely cobbled his thoughts together into some semblance of order, and already his heart has quickened its tempo.

“I think I have a problem regarding Jesse McCree,” he says slowly, and Mei looks up from applying a dollop of whipped cream to the top of her pie. She gives him an assessing look, one eyebrow raised as she takes in Hanzo’s expression.

“The _Jesse McCree_ of the King County Fair baking competition?” she asks, and Hanzo nods mutely.

Whatever she sees on his face makes her put down the whipped cream and close the refrigerator door, setting down her plate of pie to reach for one of the plastic bowls off the top of the stack.

“You don’t have to-”

“Say no more,” Mei hushes him with a soft smile, pulling one of the ice cream scoops from the cups hanging from the front of the waist-high freezer units. “If we’re going to be talking about boys, you need some ice cream.”

“Aren’t you still interested in that woman who’s a physics professor at-”

“Like you would know,” Mei giggles, rolling her eyes at him. “Anyway, we’re talking about you and your boy troubles tonight, Hanzo. No getting out of this one!”

The freezer opens with a soft pop of suction, and Mei twirls the scoop between her fingers before making a decision and starting to scoop. Hanzo sighs, smiling fondly; she always seems to know what he needs, and he’s never one to turn down some of Mei’s homemade hard-scoop ice cream.

Mei hops up on the counter next to him once she’s deposited a bowl of nutella chip ice cream into his hands. Her feet swing as she finally tucks into her slice of pie. “Okay: spill.”

Hanzo exhales, digging in for a hefty spoonful of rich, chocolatey goodness. “It’s a long story.”

“Now that the shop is closed up I don’t have anywhere I have to be,” Mei says between bites, swiping her spoon through the whipped cream. “What about you? Are you sure you don’t need to get back to Genji?”

“It’s Genji’s job to do the prep work for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meal,” Hanzo smiles wryly. His brother had left the bakery as soon as they’d closed, leaving Hanzo to finish up the cleaning in exchange for taking charge on starting the prep. Hanzo hasn’t heard anything from him since - for better or worse. “He’ll have his hands full.”

“I bet,” Mei chuckles, spoon scraping against the plate as she chases the bits of filling and crust around. “Okay - you can’t distract me, even with this delicious pie. What’s up?”

Hanzo swallows, licking stray bits of chocolate from the corner of his mouth and turning his thoughts over in his mind, unsure of how to begin. “Have you ever said something and then immediately regretted it? Even if it was the truth?”

Mei purses her lips as she thinks. “Maybe only once or twice,” she admits, tucking her bangs behind her ear and pushing her glasses further up her nose. “Did something happen with McCree? Last I heard from Genji, he’s been spending a lot of time at the bakery.”

Hanzo nods, smiling thinly. “He was, until- until I said something I shouldn’t have.”

“Oh?” The snowflake charm dangling off the end of Mei’s hairstick jingles as she tips her head curiously, eyebrows raised.

“We’ve been,” he clears his throat, a blush forming high on his cheekbones; his face feels warm, even in the relative cool of the ice cream shop, “talking more and more, but I still haven’t forgiven him for besting me in the baking competition. It’s a matter of pride, of honor - and I told him so, after he asked me out on a date.”

The words are bitter on Hanzo’s tongue, guilt clenching at his stomach as he speaks. Even now, admitting to his grudge makes the ache in his chest all the sharper. It’s _true,_ and every time he says it, it doesn’t become _less_ true. The physical pangs that form when he remembers McCree’s face keep lingering.

Mei’s spoon clatters against her plate as she lowers it to her lap, concern clear in her warm eyes. “Hanzo,” she sighs, mouth pursed.

“I’m not sure I know how to forgive him. Or if I want to. But the look on his face - even if turning him down was the right thing to do, I didn’t have to cause such harm to him.” Hanzo shakes his head, the scarf in his hair flicking against the back of his neck. His skin is flushed hot for all that his stomach feels packed full of ice at the memory of their conversation.

“And was it?” Mei asks gently. “The right thing?”

Hanzo looks down into his melting bowl of ice cream. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, Hanzo,” Mei smiles sadly, slipping down from the counter to put a hand on his shoulder. She cups the side of his neck, fingers comforting and cool against his overheated skin, and she gently squeezes his tense muscles in solidarity. “I think we need more ice cream for this.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he’s watching the doorway to the shop front Genji nearly slides through it, catching himself against the frame. Cheeks flushed and eyes bright, he grins at Hanzo’s mystified look.
> 
> “Seems you made a convert of a pretty popular person,” Genji says, “We have quite the crowd for a Thursday afternoon!”
> 
> “Crowd?” Hanzo asks, craning his neck to peer around his brother at the bakery beyond.
> 
> “That’s putting it lightly,” Genji chuckles. “You don’t happen to have any more of those cupcakes ready yet, do you? We’re almost sold out of them already.”
> 
> Hanzo frowns. “I made two dozen of the mocha-fudge cupcakes this morning.”
> 
> Genji just waggles his eyebrows in response, and ducks back into the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a little longer than I would have liked, but I'm again very excited to be sharing the next chapter of this fic with you! Unfortunately, wedding planning and fic-writing do not easily mix. It's often a one-or-the-other time commitment, and you can probably guess which one has kept me so busy! But we've only got one chapter to go after this (maybe? We'll see!) and I'm going to do my best to keep workin' at it! In the meantime, enjoy this chapter! :)
> 
> Thank you again for so many truly fantastic and lovely comments that I've received on the last chapter and on this fic as a whole. It really means the world to me, and is hugely inspirational for me to keep writing and working on this story! The fact that it resonates with so many of you, inspires you to make or seek out some tasty things to eat - and yes, even the _"why, Hanzo!?"_ comments leave me grinning. I'm so delighted that you're enjoying this fun little story. Thank you, thank you!
> 
> I also have to shout out to [this amazing artwork created by casuallysuplexes on tumblr](https://casuallysuplexes.tumblr.com/post/157368241227/nothing-gets-me-on-board-as-fast-as-a-mf-baking-au)!! I absolutely ADORE it - everything about it is SO PERFECT, especially Genji and Hanzo synchronously saying _"Jesse McCree"_ in chapter one. It's truly a gift and a delight to see fanart based on my fic, thank you so much and go check it out if you haven't seen it already!!
> 
> Okay! I won't dally any longer. Here's the next chapter: enjoy!! ♥♥♥

 

 

 

Their Thanksgiving dinner turns out just fine.

Hanzo leaves a pan of cinnamon rolls out to rise overnight for their breakfast so that he can sleep in, for the first time in a long time. Genji actually remembers to slip them into the oven along with the turkey when his alarm goes off at an ungodly hour; despite groaning like a zombie and complaining about the cold, he manages to heat up the oven and get the turkey and cinnamon rolls inside without a fuss.

It’s a relaxing day of not having to worry about much of anything besides Genji’s tenuous cooking skills. Hanzo’s cinnamon rolls, at least, are practically perfect.

 

 

The bakery gets back to its normal routine, after the holiday. There are no more pies to be made - no more than usual, Hanzo’s thankful for that as much as anything. It’s with a lighter heart that Hanzo sits down to make a list of what the bakery will be offering for the month leading up to Christmas.

First thing in the morning is always one of Hanzo’s favorite times to be in the bakery. Now that it’s so late in the year, the sun has barely started to peek over the horizon when he heads over to start the day. The chill wind bites at his nose; frost has turned the windows spider-veined and white. But the bakery is always pleasantly warm inside.

Before the shop opens, Hanzo likes to make a morning cup of green tea and sit behind the front counter, watching the sleepy town come to life outside their window. Main Street wakes slowly as the sun breeches the trees and buildings across the street. The paper boy tosses a thick-bound newspaper on each stoop, and a slow stream of customers flits in and out of the coffee shop on the next block.

Hanzo taps the tip of his pencil on the notepad in front of him, breathing in the comforting scent of his tea, the steam warming his face. The first batch of the day’s bread is proofing behind him, the final rise before they’re destined for the oven. He’s got half an hour or so to mill over what selection of desserts to offer for the upcoming holidays.

But the page remains blank in front of him as the minutes tick by, his tea cooling in his mug, the sun climbing steadily into the brightening blue of the sky. He can’t concentrate on forming ideas on what he wants to bake. Usually it’s an exciting task, one he would spend hours on. Today, the thoughts are too fleeting for him to come up with anything substantial to put down on paper.

Hanzo can’t stop his mind from circling back to Jesse McCree, and that’s the root of his problem.

 _Bûche de Noël_ , he finally pencils at the top of the list with a sigh. _Gingerbread. Fruit cake._ _Pfeffernüsse._ It would be easier to be enthusiastic about all of the holiday treats he’ll be making if his brain would stop creating unhelpful what-if scenarios of a certain cowboy taste-testing all of Hanzo’s baking. He stamps down on the thoughts, on his imagination’s colorful rendition of McCree’s expressions upon biting into a gingerbread cowboy.

He tries and fails to squash the ache. Hanzo never expected to do anything besides tolerate Jesse McCree’s continued presence in the bakery’s front window, let alone _miss_ him.

_Holiday shape sugar cookies. Peanut butter blossoms. Ginger-pretzel reindeer._

The front window has sat empty now for almost two weeks.

But as Hanzo scans over his list, tapping the eraser end of the pencil against his lips, there’s movement out of the corner of his eye. He frowns, looking up from the paper to the street in front of the shop. There’s a vague, bulky silhouette pacing in front of the bakery, plumes of vapor rising with every exhale from a neck-high swath of red.

Hanzo’s heart jumps to his throat. He doesn’t dare hope.

The figure paces back and forth twice more before pausing, facing away from the front windows. Hanzo’s _certain_ the man’s about to walk away when he turns about-face and approaches the front door. The hazy form coalesces into a familiar face as the man reaches for the door handle.

It’s locked, of course; it’s still an hour before the bakery opens. Hanzo jumps out of his stool to dash across the tiled floor, skidding a little before he reaches it. The lock makes a metallic snap as he turns it, the bells above him chiming violently as he flings the door open.

It brings him face to face with none other than Jesse McCree.

There’s a faint, sweet smell of cigar tobacco hanging in the air, clinging to the bright fabric of McCree’s poncho. It invades Hanzo’s senses, filling his nose along with the spice of the cowboy’s own scent. Hanzo still hasn’t been able to put his finger on what, exactly, it is - cardamom? Nutmeg? McCree’s nostrils flare as the warm, yeasty-sweet smell of the bakery hits him in the face; his cheeks are fetchingly pink from the morning chill, lips chapped and eyebrows slanted down in concern.

The second thing that hits Hanzo is the cold. The fine hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end as the November air claps him in the face, making his eyes sting at the suddenness of it. He blinks, a shiver running down his spine in tandem with the curling heat in his gut at the pleasant surprise of McCree’s presence.

“Well, don’t stand out in the cold,” Hanzo snaps impatiently, but it comes out far too fond to hold any bite. Already the thin hair on his arms is starting to rise, too - the bakery is so warm he’s kept his sleeves rolled up and the top clasp of his chef’s whites unbuttoned all morning. “We’re letting out the warm.”

Hanzo pulls the door open a little wider and stands to the side, beckoning McCree inside. That seems to be the thing that pulls the cowboy out of his surprised daze. Which is odd, Hanzo thinks, considering that it was _he_ who approached the bakery door. But a slow smile is blooming on McCree’s face, eyes brightening as he takes a jingling step forward and into the bakery, swiping his tilted hat off his head. Hanzo’s stomach twists pleasantly at the sight.

McCree strolls forward almost casually, glancing around like he hasn’t seen the place before and it’s all fresh. Not that it’s changed much in the weeks since- since Hanzo turned him down. Hanzo closes the door behind him, watching warily as the cowboy approaches the dessert case and peers at the rows of pastries. His stomach flips and heart trips over itself in his chest.

He waits McCree out. It’s a technique he’s perfected with Genji: nothing makes his younger brother spill the beans like a studiously applied silence at just the right time. So he circles the counter again, taking his place on a stool and watching the cowboy with a neutral expression that probably doesn’t hide all of his hopeful curiosity.

McCree looks up from his inspection of yesterday’s fruit tarts and gives him a small smile. He straightens slowly, tossing the stray fringe of his poncho over his shoulder and nodding to the notepad on the counter in front of Hanzo.

“Planning out what you’ll make for the holiday season?” he asks, skimming the list upside-down. McCree’s voice is even and neutral, but Hanzo spots the tension in the muscles of his forearms, in the way his fingers clench on his belt loops. He’s still a little flushed, despite having come in from the cold.

He was pacing outside of the Shimada bakery bright and early on a Tuesday morning. It has to mean _something._

Hanzo nods carefully. “Making a list.”

McCree cracks a wide smile. “Checking it twice?”

Hanzo can’t stop himself from the dirty look he shoots at McCree without thinking, eyebrows pulled down in a mild glare. He’s halfway to chastising himself for yet another flub in interacting with the man when McCree lets out a burst of laughter, bright and booming at his own joke and Hanzo’s resulting expression. Hanzo’s frown fades as he watches the amusement play out on McCree’s face, the gentle crow’s feet that form at the corner of his eyes when his cheeks are stretched tight from smiling.

The patter of Hanzo’s heart in his chest doesn’t totally return to normal, but it slows, and the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. Maybe he didn’t fuck things up as thoroughly as he’d thought.

McCree sighs as his laughter finally peters off, shaking his head at himself. With the nervous tension broken he leans a little more on the dessert case, scratching along the line of his jaw. “Well, anyway. The holiday’s still a ways off, you got plenty of time to prepare. I just wanted to stop by and say hello, since I haven’t been by since before Thanksgiving.” He gives Hanzo another smile, eager to please. “Maybe pick up somethin’ sweet for breakfast, seeing as it’s still so early.”

As far as Hanzo is concerned - and he can reluctantly admit it in the privacy of his own mind - two weeks without seeing the cowboy was an awfully long time. He’s not sure he would call them friends, precisely; Hanzo’s a creature of habit, though, and he’d grown accustomed to the cowboy’s steady, easy-going presence and bearded grin.

(Genji would probably say he’s full of shit and that they _are_ friends, but he’s thankfully not here to argue the point.)

So Hanzo pulls out a sheaf of wax paper and slides open the glass panel at the back of the cabinet with a bit of a flourish. He doesn’t even need to ask what McCree would like to have - the cowboy always lets him pick from whatever’s freshly baked.

McCree’s eyes are on him as he plucks one of yesterday’s _pain au chocolat_ from the case, and on a whim Hanzo turns and opens the warming oven to slip the pastry inside. It’s a cold morning, after all, and there’s nothing like warm, buttery layers of pastry and the ooze of melted chocolate in every bite.

“Aw, you didn’t have to-” McCree protests, but Hanzo holds up a hand. It’s not atonement for how poorly their last meeting went, but he’s determined to turn over a new leaf. They can….they can be rivals _and_ friends, perhaps. And friends get pastries warmed up for them when it’s so early in the morning.

“Tea?” Hanzo asks, gesturing to the pot of sencha he’d brewed for himself and his own steaming mug. McCree nods, eyes still pinched at the corners from smiling.

Wisps of steam form off the hot surface of the tea, and their fingers brush when Hanzo hands over the filled mug, The ceramic is warm and McCree’s fingers are still cool from the outside, a contrast that makes Hanzo’s ears burn. He clears his throat as he picks up his own tea and takes a sip, watching out of the corner of his eyes as McCree does the same.

He takes a careful sip and presses his lips together as he swallows, frowning a little bit down at the green liquid.

“Is green tea not to your taste?” Hanzo asks, his small smile mostly hidden by his mug. McCree looks up to give him a sheepish grin.

“Can’t say it’s something I’ve had very often,” he admits, scratching the back of his head. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and Hanzo trains his gaze back to McCree’s eyes as quickly as he can. “And I’m more used to the flavor of sweet tea, truth be told. Don’t you use green tea in your baking? This tastes different from that, too.”

“In baking I use powdered matcha, not loose-leaf sencha,” Hanzo explains, blowing across the tea to cool it. He flashes McCree a little grin, though, letting the corners of his lips turn up. “But there’s also a good amount of sugar with it, too.”

McCree returns the smile, eyebrows raising. “Well no wonder I like it when it’s in your baking, then. I ain’t ever able to resist something so sweet.”

He takes another sip of the tea, lips smacking a little has the considers the taste. For someone not classically trained in any kind of cooking or baking, the cowboy has a good sense for flavors and creating dishes.

Not that Hanzo’s ready to admit so much to the man’s face. Instead, he hides a grin behind his mug, making a soft noise in his throat as he takes another drink. If there’s anything McCree can’t resist, it’s anything sweet.

McCree must catch the amusement in his eyes, because he’s returning the smile when Hanzo says, “Oh, I know.”

 

 

Genji’s eyes nearly pop out of his head when, later that week, Jesse McCree comes strolling into the shop. He calls a warm greeting that Hanzo calmly returns, barely looking up from his task of carefully plating two slices of cheesecake for the two college girls in front of the counter.

Mouth ajar,Genji does a dramatic double-take between the cowboy and Hanzo himself, who fails in restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“What?” Genji hisses as he peeks over Hanzo’s shoulder, watching McCree pry open the lid to his laptop and slide his scarf from around his neck. Somehow, magically, he always manages to remove it without having to take off his signature hat. Hanzo’s mildly impressed. “ _What?”_

“Calm down; it’s not like you’ve seen him before,” Hanzo murmurs, shooting Genji a look. His brother’s never been very good about volume control, and the shop is only so big.

“Did you make up with him?” Genji’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline in disbelief, and then he narrows his eyes at Hanzo, sliding closer to peer down into his face. He makes a show of examining Hanzo’s pupils, pinching his cheek and tugging at the tie in his hair. “Who are you and where is my brother? Are you a _cyborg replacement_ Hanzo? Is this a case of _demonic possession_?”

“Very funny,” Hanzo says dryly, swatting him away. “He came by earlier this week.”

Genji squints at him suspiciously. “You aren’t telling me everything.”

At that, Hanzo snorts. “You’re my younger brother. You can’t tease me if I don’t tell you everything. If I hadn’t told you about it afterwards, you wouldn’t have even known about the Eggc- _I mean_ -”

“Ha!” Genji crows in delight. Hanzo wants to smack himself in the face for the slip. “You _yourself_ call it _The Eggcident!_ Does this mean you do think I’m funny?”

“I’m going back to the kitchen,” Hanzo threatens, wiping his hands on the cloth draped over his shoulder. McCree meets his eyes from across the room, doing a poor job of hiding his smile behind his hand at the brothers’ antics. “To do my _job._ If someone else comes into the shop, be sure to do _yours_.”

The sound of Genji’s imploring whines - _Hanzoooo,_ _come on,_ _I want the whole story! -_ follow him into the back of the kitchen, and Hanzo exhales a sigh, smiling. He’ll tell Genji, but there’s no need to drag the whole thing out again in front of McCree himself. They seem to have found ballast again, after all.

Genji slips into the kitchen to take a break an hour later, when Hanzo’s started working on fresh cake decorations. He doesn’t look up, but he can tell it’s Genji. No one else brings such a splash of bright green to his peripheral vision, and the only person lighter on his feet than Genji is Hanzo himself.

Hanzo dabs another blob of frosting onto the metal rose nail he’s holding delicately between his fingers. “If you’ve come to say-”

“No, no, listen!” Genji holds up his hand, placating. His expression softens as he approaches Hanzo’s workstation, watching as he pipes delicate petals onto the frosting rose, piece by piece. Hanzo pauses in his work; it’s been a long time since he’s seen such a seriousness on Genji’s face. “I think this is actually good for you. Not just to have more friends that are bakers - no offense to Amelie, but she’s in another country and running a bakery _empire_ , and it’s not the same. But to let it go, you know? Pride isn’t everything.”

“There is nothing wrong with taking pride in my craft. It’s part of what makes me a good baker,” Hanzo points out, but even as he says it the ache between his ribs pulses to life. The words didn’t always felt so empty, but more and more lately they’ve felt ill-fitting, uncomfortable on his tongue. Hanzo isn’t sure what that means.

Genji tips his head, eyes bright and knowing. “You’ve always been a good baker. But Jesse McCree being a good baker doesn’t make you _worse._ His talent doesn’t diminish yours. He has two silver plates now, but so do you. You have a successful bakery and your food makes anyone who walks in here smile - isn’t that enough?”

Hanzo stares down at the frosting rose, gently twisting the rose nail between his fingers so that it slowly spins. Genji has a point, but just the mention of the competition stings like a knife sliding home. It _should_ be enough. “Have you been speaking with Ana or Mei? Your pep talks are improving.”

“Hanzo,” Genji thwacks him gently on the shoulder with the back of his hand, admonishing. “We’re all here to support you, and that means listening to our free advice. Don’t let yourself be stubborn with your pride. There are more important things.”

“There are,” Hanzo agrees, finally looking up to meet Genji’s eyes. “I appreciate it, brother. It’s just...not something so quickly changed.”

Genji hums, patting Hanzo’s shoulder consolingly - but gently, as to not disturb his work. The raised eyebrows Hanzo gives him ensures that Genji doesn’t get too close to his other hand, which is holding the full bag of frosting. But Genji’s smile keeps growing as Hanzo watches, dark eyebrows creeping towards his shock of green hair, all too knowing. “I don’t know, Hanzo. I think things can change faster than you think.”

 

 

Something’s up.

Hanzo wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, tucking stray hair from his bangs behind one ear. Working near the ovens is hot business. But something’s off; he can’t put his finger on what it is, but he has the vague, unsettled feeling that something is different.

He steps away from the ovens to examine the cupcakes before he turns them out of the pan. They’re perfect, as always: light and the perfect cakey density, cooked all the way through to the salted caramel centers. And Genji was right that gold foil cupcake liners look quite striking against the dark chocolate of the little cakes. But the cupcakes are fine; that’s not it.

It’s only when he gets further away from the oven hoods, away from the constant hum of the fans that he hears it: a dull murmur of voices from the front of the bakery, so loud that he can hear it all the way back from the kitchens.

As he’s watching the doorway to the shop front Genji nearly slides through it, catching himself against the frame. Cheeks flushed and eyes bright, he grins at Hanzo’s mystified look.

“Seems you made a convert of a pretty popular person,” Genji says, “We have quite the crowd for a Thursday afternoon!”

“Crowd?” Hanzo asks, craning his neck to peer around his brother at the bakery beyond.

“That’s putting it lightly,” Genji chuckles. “You don’t happen to have any more of those cupcakes ready yet, do you? We’re almost sold out of them already.”

Hanzo frowns. “I made two dozen of the mocha-fudge cupcakes this morning.”

Genji just waggles his eyebrows in response, and ducks back into the shop.

 _A crowd._ Now that Hanzo’s listening closely, he can hear it: the bubbling of voices like a faraway brook, the gentle click and clink of forks on plates. The bells of the shopfront chime merrily, accompanied by a new flurry of voices.

The cupcakes need to cool before he can frost them, anyways.

Hanzo tugs at his ponytail, straightening his apron before he steps through the doorway. He can already see half a dozen people standing in a neat line in front of the dessert cases, awaiting their turn at the counter. There’s pairs of friends, heads bent together as they point at the cookies or slices of cake; there’s mothers and bright-eyed children dazzled by the wide variety of sweet treats. There are a _lot_ of young people, many sporting the distinct blue and white-and-orange logo of the nearby university, chatting over pastries at the front tables with textbooks and laptops spread out in front of them.

There’s a flash of pink out of the corner of his vision, and a bright laugh rings through the shop. _Ah._ Surrounded by a knot of university students in various neon colors, there’s the undergrad that came in before the holiday and had a stare-down with Genji. She’s sitting in the middle of the throng, putting down a steady stream of cookies as she taps away at a handheld game, barely needing to look at the screen to keep up with both the game and the conversation at the same time.

Hanzo smiles wryly and shakes his head, tucking his bangs behind his ear as he moves to help Genji at the front counter.

“I’m sure you’re a little proud of yourself,” he says, nudging past Genji to get to the register. “A popular person, indeed. She came in with all these people at once?”

Genji beams. “Not all at once,” he admits, “but as soon as she got here they’ve been stopping by pretty steadily. She’s got a lot of followers on instagram and Twitter, apparently. I’m just impressed you remembered her.”

“Remembered her?” Hanzo chuckles. “How could I have forgotten? She called you _carrot cake_ to your face.”

“ _I’m_ not surprised you remember,” a voice says from over Hanzo’s shoulder, “that joke was _iconic.”_

When Hanzo turns he finds the undergrad leaning against the dessert case, and for a moment her pose is so reminiscent of a certain cowboy that Jesse’s face flashes in his mind’s eye. But the girl in front of him is a head shorter than McCree, at least. From what he’s seen so far, though, Hanzo would say her personality is just as big.

Genji presses his lips together, though the smile doesn’t fade from his face. “It was a good joke,” he agrees with a soft shrug, cheek dimpling in his amusement, “and let’s be real - I dye my hair _green._ I’m man enough to say that it was funny, even at my expense.”

“And I’m woman enough to admit when I’m wrong,” her grin turns a bit sheepish as she flips her hair over her shoulder, but the confident line of her shoulders doesn’t give. “The desserts you had me try from the last time I stopped by were _incredible._ Not just incredible - mind-blowing. And I don’t say that lightly. I had to stop gaming during my stream so I could focus on finishing that cookie with all the attention it deserved.”

Hanzo raises his eyebrows. He’s pretty certain he knows what she’s talking about - Genji’s always been the one more into video games, though his childhood habits always trended towards arcades - but her enthusiasm makes an even bigger impression. “Well, I’m glad my brother’s gamble turned you into a fan, Miss…”

“Song. Hana Song. Pro gaming streamer by night, political science student by day. And a big fan of good baking,” she adds, holding out her hand for Hanzo to shake. She’s got a firm grip to go along with her confidence; Hanzo can’t help but be impressed. “I would have stopped by again sooner if it hadn’t been in the middle of midterms.”

Despite his tendency to crow about his victories, Genji’s smile remains earnest, sincere. “I knew your mind would be changed by Hanzo’s baking. I’d bet on him any day.”

“I would too,” Hana grins, and gives Genji a wink. “That’s why I gave your bakery a shout-out on my stream last night, and linked to your Instagram. You can bet I’ll be back here for some more snacks - classes permitting.”

“All these people follow your streams?” Hanzo glances at the grinning faces around the bakery - many of them are students from the university, but just as many of the folks packed around the little tables and in line are families and older couples. “The power of social media - you were right to set up those pages, Genji.”

His brother preens, and Hana giggles. “Well - and my BFF is one of the DJs for the college radio station. He plugged the bakery, too! We’re only doing right by the locals and our fellow students to let them know where there’s good eating in town.”

“Thanks for the boost,” Genji says, and saunters over once he’s finished packaging up a little box of macarons. Grinning, he pulls out his phone to show Hanzo the bakery’s twitter account - and the rising follower number. Hana leans over the counter to peer at the screen, and Hanzo squints, unsure of what he’s seeing. Did they they really gain about 300 followers overnight?

“Holy shit! It’s gone up again since I last checked,” Genji’s eyes are wide with delight, and Hanzo can practically see his ego start to swell. If the bakery wasn’t so swamped with customers, he’d tell Genji to head to the back, under the pretense of checking on the ovens or to wash his hands, anything to get him out of the limelight.

Hana Song must sense it too, because she smirks ever-so-craftily. “So if the hot older brother bakes, what do you do again?”

Genji splutters. “I am the _face_ of this bakery!”

“He’s good moral support, I’ll give him that,” Hanzo says, “but if you’re the face of anything, Genji, it’s the face of getting in troub-”

The front door chimes, and on instinct Hanzo glances through the bustling crowd in the bakery to see who it is. He cuts himself off, breath catching in his throat, as he catches a glimpse of a red scarf and the silhouette of a broad-brimmed hat.

Of course it’s Jesse McCree. He doesn’t need more than a glimpse to tell him that. If Hanzo’s internal clock is anything to go by - and his gut tells him he’s right, anyways - the cowboy is right on time for his afternoon writing session and bakery-supplied snack.

Warmth floods his cheeks, and he tries to slide his eyes away from the tall figure as casually as he can. It’s no use: Genji’s eyebrows are rising towards his garish hair, and Hana’s tilting her head at him curiously. It’s only a matter of time before Genji opens his mouth and-

“Excuse me,” Hanzo says faintly, clapping his brother on the shoulder to move past him and towards the kitchens. “I think I heard one of the oven timers go off. It was nice to meet you, Miss Song.”

“You too, Mr. Shimada!” she calls after him with a wave, but Hanzo doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart to the doorway.

He knew she was clever. Hanzo can only hope that Genji won’t go and start gossiping to someone they’ve just met about Hanzo’s so-called _Cowboy Problem._

As it happens, the next batch of cupcakes is ready to come out of the ovens; it had been a convenient excuse, but Hanzo would have had to come back to the kitchens anyways. He rubs his eyes before pulling on oven mitts, desperate for the flush to fade from his cheeks. His body has never so regularly betrayed him before.

But Hanzo sets about his work, pulling the trays out of the oven and letting them cool, gathering the ingredients to whip up a fresh batch of frosting. He can’t help it, though: no matter what he tries to preoccupy himself with, he’s got one ear attuned to what’s happening in the shop, straining to catch Genji’s voice or Hana’s tinkling laughter - and especially the smooth tenor of one Jesse McCree.

He pulls out the notepad he’s been working on, as a last-ditch effort to occupy his brain. The cupcakes need to cool off before he can frost and decorate them, anyways. Perhaps reading through his holiday baking plan and fine-tuning it will be enough for him to ignore what’s going on in the shop front. Glasses on and pen in hand, Hanzo commits himself to concentrating.

He lasts about eight minutes before there’s the tell-tale jingling of spurs.

“Don’t let me disturb you, but you look about as lost as last year’s Easter egg.” McCree pulls one of the kitchen stools over to Hanzo’s work station, where he’s still trying to pore over his notes to little avail.

Hanzo looks up from the list, tucking the stray fringe of his long bangs behind one ear and adjusting his glasses. He quirks an eyebrow. “Are you in the habit of losing Easter eggs?”

McCree swings his feet up, boots making a heavy thunk on the seat of the extra stool. He crosses his legs at the ankle, waving away Hanzo’s question with a smile. Ah - just another one of his Southern sayings, then. Hanzo should’ve known, considering Easter isn’t the nearest holiday. “What’re you workin’ on, darlin’?”

“Refining the bakery’s menu for what we will be offering this holiday season,” Hanzo twirls the pen between his fingers, impatient and indecisive. None of the additions or changes he’s made to the list have been able to satisfy him enough to say that it’s finished. Not that he’s been able to make any progress in the last few minutes.

But Genji _has_  been shaking his head at him for days, wry and admonishing. He knows better than anyone what Hanzo is like when he gets his teeth into something and refuses to let go until it’s done properly. This list has to be _perfect._ How else can they ensure that they’ll provide a good variety of holiday treats and stay stocked all the way up through Christmas?

“Still? Want me to take a look?” McCree asks, eyeing the list, and Hanzo deliberates only half a second before pushing the notepad towards him. Another pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt, seeing as Genji won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.

Hanzo taps the pen against his lips as McCree skims down the list of treats - cookies and cakes, cupcakes with different frostings and fillings, traditional sweets they sell every year and a few new and special recipes Hanzo’s already started dreaming up. Autumn into winter is Hanzo’s favorite time of year, not in the least because the business around the holidays lets him experiment and bring something new to old favorites. Last year they’d totally sold out of the “cobblestone” gingerbread cabins Hanzo made by folding in fresh chunks of candied ginger into the warm brown dough.

This year, he’ll do something even better.

“Hmm,” McCree hums, drawing out the sound as he reads down the page. “Sure got a lot of things on this here list. You make this much every year?”

“Usually,” Hanzo muses, leaning over to peer at it with McCree. Their shoulders brush, McCree’s heat leeching into his skin even with the two layers of their sleeves between them.

Hanzo tries to ignore the gentle shiver that runs down his spine, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “I’d like to trim down the list a little, but am finding it hard to strike a balance between enough variety and too many choices. Not to mention the old favorites that we do every year, that our regulars will be expecting. And at least one or two new things, so I don’t drive myself crazy over the month of December.”

“Crazy?” McCree shoots him a smile; they’re so close that Hanzo can feel the exhale of McCree’s breath flutter over the skin of his neck. “You mean you _don’t_ like baking three dozen of every Christmas cookie known to man?”

Hanzo smirks at McCree’s sarcasm. “What an underestimate. Try thirty dozen.”

McCree nearly falls off his stool. “Thirty dozen!?”

“Over the course of the whole month, yes,” Hanzo shrugs one shoulder, unable to stop smiling at McCree’s incredulous gaping. “Not of every kind, of course. The more popular ones certainly sell faster. I’ll never want to see another peanut butter blossom or chocolate kiss in my life by the new year.”

“Ain’t that a shame,” McCree murmurs, leaning his elbows on the table and cupping his chin in one hand. “Everything’s better with peanut butter. Could say the same for a kiss, too.”

He doesn’t need to wink; Hanzo can feel that his face is starting to heat despite the warmth of the kitchen. He clears his throat, stubbornly refusing to look away even with the pink spreading across his cheeks, underneath his glasses. “Regardless, they’re one of Genji’s favorites, so they stay on the list.”

The cowboy glances down at the notepad again, shaking his head. “You know, I couldn’t even tell you where to start crossin’ things off. Just reading down this list has me thinking about making all sorts of tasty things for the holidays, and you’ve certainly got a good selection of ‘em.”

“Do you have a favorite?” Hanzo asks, before he thinks to hesitate. He licks his lips, observing the way that McCree’s eyebrows crease as he thinks, scratching through his beard as he considers the question seriously.

Hanzo’s eyes skim down the muscular lines of his shoulders and back, his gaze catching on a narrow strip of tanned skin that’s revealed where McCree’s shirt rides up. Leaning forward as he is, the base of McCree’s broad back is on display; Hanzo thinks he can almost spot the gentle divots of dimples on either side of his spine when Jesse starts to speak, and he guiltily tears his eyes away.

“Don’t know if I can rightly choose,” McCree admits, chuckling. “It’s a good thing I’ll get to have them all, between bakin’ some myself and stopping by to try yours. I suppose I’ve got a soft spot for gingerbread, but you can’t go wrong with anything chocolate, too.”

“Sweet tooth,” Hanzo accuses gently, knocking their shoulders together - intentionally this time - and smiling at the grin McCree shoots his way. “Have you ever made a gingerbread cowboy?”

“Have I ever,” McCree laughs, leaning back and nudging the notepad back in Hanzo’s direction with the tips of his fingers. “You don’t start writing cowboy novels and then get away without some teasing, at least in my family. You wouldn’t believe how many different cowboy cookie cutters are out there.”

Hanzo raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all,” he says, shaking his head. “Genji keeps trying to find better and better dragon ones, but no matter how I ice them, they never come out quite right.”

McCree smiles, mouth twisted to one side in amusement. “Gingerbread dragons?”

“Like the Shimada dragons,” Hanzo taps his chest, where the dragon ouroboros of their logo and the name of the bakery are embroidered over his heart. McCree’s eyes flick down to it, and he leans closer to study the design. Like he hasn’t seen it dozens of times before, Hanzo thinks, and snorts softly. “I’m better off doing the whole design in icing, if accuracy is the goal. But we see the symbol around the shop enough as it is, let alone putting it on cookies.”

McCree looks up at him, a soft crease between his eyebrows even though there’s still a smile on his face. “He’s just proud of you, y’know.”

Hanzo blinks. “Genji?”

“Yeah, he is. Of _course_ he is,” the cowboy leans back, looking again at the symbol above Hanzo’s lapel. It’s embroidered in navy blue and gold on his chef’s whites; Genji’s is embroidered in gold and green to match, though he’s more likely to wear just the apron.

McCree settles on his stool, gesturing to the kitchen around them - the ovens humming gently as they fill the room with warmth and the growing scent of fresh-baked bread; the racks of dough rising and waiting their turn; the refrigerators with cakes ready to decorate and Hanzo’s meticulous whiteboard of the day’s tasks. “Look at what you created with all your hard work. He don’t always say it as such, but he’s proud of you and what you do, and gettin’ to be a part of it.”

Hanzo tilts his head, mouth pressed in a thin line as he digests McCree’s words. It’s not that he never noticed - he just never thought of it like that. He glances back to the cowboy, a glimmer in his eye. “Since when have you been such a good judge of character?”

McCree beams at him, and Hanzo’s heart tumbles in his chest. “A while now, as it happens. Though it’s only the thing I’m fourth best at.”

“Fourth best?” Hanzo raises his eyebrows, reaching out for his list again and tucking his pen behind his ear. “What three things are you better at?”

“Writing, for one,” McCree holds up a finger, grinning. “Gotta be good at that, seein’ as it’s my profession and all. Baking comes in as a close second.”

Hanzo eyes the two fingers McCree’s holding up, studying the smile that’s slowly growing into a smirk on the cowboy’s face as he watches. He swallows. “And the third?”

McCree winks, Hanzo’s stomach flips just like it had all those weeks ago. Something dark and warm settles low in his gut. “You’re just gonna have to wait and find out.”

Hanzo’s not oblivious to the fact that McCree’s eyes linger on the open first button of his shirt, and the sliver of his bare throat revealed beneath. His blush grows, spreading to warm the tips of his ears - thankfully mostly hidden by his hair. But the tension between them isn’t unpleasant, and neither are the sensations in Hanzo’s chest from being the object of McCree’s close attention and flirtatious joking.

He smiles back at McCree and lets himself think, for the first time, that maybe he _would_.

Maybe he would like to find out.

 

 

Hanzo gets a text around 7pm, as he’s locking up the bakery for the night, brushing as much stray flour as he can out of his apron. He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket right as he’s retying his ponytail tight against his head, so no stray flyaway hairs get in his face as he’s washing up and wiping down the counters during his regular end-of-the-day ritual.

It buzzes twice before he finishes with his hair, and Hanzo rolls his eyes. Genji left the bakery all of half an hour ago, and like clockwork he’s texting Hanzo about something he’s forgotten - or something he’d like his older brother to pick up on the way home.

There are perks to living together, Hanzo tells himself, but running errands for Genji isn’t one of them.

He tucks his gold scarf between his teeth as he fishes his phone out of his pocket, leaving a damp thumbprint on the screen as he swipes and opens up his messages. Three texts - but none of them are from Genji.

_I didnt rlly answer u earlier, but my fave cookie is actually these gingersnap smores cookies (moonpies) my grndma makes. She gave me the recipe yrs ago and theyre mighty fine._

_Hope youre ready to try them sometme soon :)_

_This is Jesse btw_

Jesse Mccree. Hanzo stares down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen uncertainly.

After a moment of deliberation he taps out a response, his gut twisting with nervousness. He hits send before he can hesitate and second guess himself - and pauses before he closes out of the text, licking his lips as he looks down at the string of little numbers on the screen. Tapping twice brings him to the _Add New Contact_ screen, and stomach fluttering, he types out _Jesse McCree_.

The phone vibrates in his hand as he goes to slip it back into his pocket, and it’s almost ridiculous how quickly he snatches it back and checks the notifications.

You:  
_Looking forward to it._

Jesse McCree:  
_:)_

A colon and a parenthesis shouldn’t make Hanzo smile down at his phone like he does, but he can’t stop the grin or banish the butterflies fluttering somewhere in his chest.

Leaning back against the countertop, Hanzo rakes his bangs out of his face and reads through the messages again. Gingersnap s’mores. _Moonpies_. He’ll have to make sure McCree makes good on his promise before Christmas - because after, Hanzo will certainly be _more_ than sick of anything even remotely approaching gingerbread.

Not _McCree,_ he tells himself, and opens up the contacts again to carefully backspace half a dozen letters from the Name field.

Jesse. Just Jesse.

 

 

It always seems to happen like this: one minute Hanzo’s taking the time a few days after Thanksgiving to plan out the bakery’s holiday menu, and the next minute it’s halfway through December.

Genji decorates the bakery’s front windows with strings of white Christmas lights, which twinkle merrily against the glass once the sun sets. Every morning they bake cookies and ice cupcakes and chill mousse and pipe holiday greetings on cakes, and by the end of the day the dessert cases are nearly cleaned out. It’s a good feeling, even if the days are flying by.

Ana stops by to purchase two dozen gingerbread cookies - “Gingerbread _kids_ , if you have any. The children love to bite the limbs off of them, which is really rather telling for eight-year-olds,” - but she doesn’t stay long once she sees how busy the bakery is. There’s a coy glimmer in her eye when she glances over Hanzo from head to toe, and she beckons him closer so that she can speak to him over the clatter and chatter of the shop.

“You’re looking better than when I last saw you,” Ana murmurs knowingly, reaching out to brush some crumbs from Hanzo’s shoulder and straighten his chef’s whites and apron. The gentle touches are motherly, her tone fond for all that it’s smug. Her smile is far too clever by half. “Finally taking an old woman’s advice?”

“If you wanted to be sure that your advice is followed, you could start giving it in English,” Hanzo points out, but there’s no heat behind his words. Ana laughs, flicking her white braid over her shoulder; she’s tied off the end of it with green ribbon to match her scarf and eyepatch.

“Now, Hanzo, that would be too easy,” she pats him on the cheek, gathering her box of cookies off the counter and smiling at the bright length of string Hanzo’s looped into a neat bow. Ana lifts the box - careful not to jostle the contents too much - and breathes in the spiced scent of gingerbread coming from within. “Thank you for these - I am sure they will be well enjoyed. Life’s sweeter when you don’t hold on to bitterness, hm?”

“Only one of the many things that makes life sweet,” Hanzo replies with a smile, and Ana waves off his teasing with a chuckle.

“Oh, you don’t need to tell _me._ Try not to run yourself too ragged this holiday, Hanzo,” she says, stepping back from the counter so that the next customer in line can get their order. “But I do expect the whole story when I stop by again, when it’s quieter. If I haven’t heard through the grapevine by then.”

“Indeed,” Hanzo raises an eyebrow, glancing behind him to Genji - who gives the both of them two big thumbs-up. Ana laughs all the way to the front door, only stopping when the door is pulled open from the outside - and then held open for her by none other than Jesse McCree. The cowboy makes a great sweeping gesture for her to exit before he steps inside, and Ana gives him a sharp smile and once-over that makes Hanzo’s ears burn. Ana’s often motherly, yes, but not particularly subtle.

She shoots a final smirk at Hanzo over her shoulder as she strides out into the night air, leaving Jesse confused and curious in her wake.

If only Hanzo could manage to find a way to be so bold in front of the cowboy- but just the thought of it colors his cheeks. He catches Genji giving him sly glances as McCree moves to his usual spot, bypassing the line of customers to settle down at his table and unwrap the thick scarf from around his neck.

At least, like Jesse, he can blame his blush on the weather and the excitement of being so busy during the month of December.

 

 

Jesse does bring him cookies, but not the moonpies - not at first. Hanzo makes the mistake of grumbling about pulling long hours at the bakery, arriving so early that the sun has yet to rise and melt the frost off the cars and leaving long after the sun has set. Jesse gets this look on his face, something of a cross between determined and annoyed to hear that he’s so overworked, and that evening Hanzo gets a text asking _do u prefer choc chips or cranberries? :)_

 _Cranberries,_ he’d texted back, and the next day Jesse arrives first thing in the morning with a plate of warm scones and a thermos of what he promises is tea.

Hanzo’s helpless against the clenching of his heart in his chest.

It’s just past opening and the shop is empty - even Genji is out back in the kitchen, doing his part to prepare for yet another busy day as Christmas inches closer - so Hanzo pulls up a chair at Jesse’s usual table, carefully screwing the lid off the thermos and giving its contents a sniff.

“Black tea?” It’s the traditional accompaniment for scones, at breakfast or not; black tea is different from the sencha he usually drinks, but not unpleasantly so. Especially not as perfectly brewed as this cup is. “You didn’t have to go through the trouble, Jesse.”

“Shucks, darlin’,” Jesse replies, pink staining his cheeks as Hanzo takes a careful sip of the hot tea, and Hanzo realizes with a belated flip of his stomach that it was the first time he’d called the man by his given name. He’s been _Jesse_ in his mind for two weeks now, ever since they’d started casually texting. “Couldn’t let you go without breakfast because you’re so busy. It’s not like I have anyone to bake for besides myself, anyhow.”

Hanzo carefully swallows his tea so that he doesn’t choke. Is Jesse implying…? Getting asked out in the first place was a pretty good indicator that the cowboy was single. But Hanzo also doesn’t doubt that if he really wanted to, Jesse could find someone without a problem. Who knows what could’ve happened in the weeks since Jesse asked him out.

Hanzo resolutely doesn’t acknowledge the little flame of hope in his chest that burns brighter at the idea of a second chance.

“Still, I appreciate it,” he says instead, nibbling at the corner of one of the scones. The dried cranberries are a perfect combination of chewy-sweet and tart in the buttery center of the scone, light and not too dense. Hanzo brushes crumbs out of his mustache as surreptitiously as he can under the sun-like intensity of Jesse’s full attention. The cowboy’s wide smile turns something in his belly warm and weak.

“Ain’t a problem in the slightest,” Jesse says, apparently content to watch Hanzo eat through half-lidded eyes, hiding a wide yawn with his hand. “I’m glad you like ‘em. Gonna have to come up with something even better next time, seein’ as you’re baking every cookie known to man this month.”

Hanzo looks up from his scone. “Next time?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you go the whole month as busy as you are without bringing you somethin’ to have as a break,” Jesse quirks an eyebrow, and a little jolt runs down Hanzo’s spine at the confident, amused smile on the cowboy’s face. He actually means it. He’s concerned enough about Hanzo’s well-being that he’d go out of his way to make sure he’s eating despite his busy schedule and long hours at the bakery.

Hanzo swallows thickly. It’s one thing for the close people in his life to go out of their way for him; Genji does, when he knows Hanzo’s busy and stressed and exhausted during the month of December, and Mei has an uncanny ability of knowing when he needs a pick-me-up. Even Ana, with her knowing glances and sharp wit, takes the time to listen and offer whatever measures of comfort and advice that she can give. But they’ve known him for years, ever since he moved to this town - and Genji even longer. For Jesse McCree to just start showing up in his life, all smiles and sunshine and plaid shirts and _cowboy boots,_ it’s-

And now he’s joined their ranks, of inexplicably _caring_ about Hanzo, at the least as a friend - to make sure he’s eating and taking the time to sit with him so early in the morning, the only time Jesse knows that he’ll have free once the sun climbs higher and the day gets busier, and Hanzo can’t-

He takes another bite of a scone as his throat grows tight. In some ways, it was easier when this was all more clear-cut, when Jesse McCree was a faceless rival to defeat and nothing more.

Still: he doesn’t think he would trade how things have changed for the _Best in Baking_ silver platter.

Not anymore.

 

 

As it turns out, _next time_ is butter-pecan bars. The time after that is a single serving-sized trifle - after Hanzo had requested something with actual _fruit_ in it. If Jesse is going to be bringing him treats so early in the day, at least they could moderately resemble a balanced breakfast..

“You mean you _don’t_ like making breakfast out of dessert? You run a bakery an’ all,” Jesse grins, taking a spoonful of whipped cream and strawberries off the top of the trifle. Hanzo had gotten two spoons and insisted they share, since apparently Jesse’s idea of a single-person serving is still a bowl close to the size of Hanzo’s head.

Hanzo snorts. “Not _every day,_ ” he acknowledges, slipping another spoonful of berries and custard and ladyfingers into his mouth. They’re not in season but the fruit is refreshing anyways, after so much sugar and tasty - but heavy - ingredients. “It wouldn’t do to get sick of desserts, considering my chosen profession.”

Jesse hums thoughtfully around his spoon, and when Hanzo looks up there’s a smear of whipped cream on one corner of his moustache. The cowboy hasn’t noticed, preoccupied with plucking the spoon from between his own lips and going to scoop another bite.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jesse finally says, smirking Hanzo’s way was he digs around in the dish for another slice of strawberry. Hanzo watches, transfixed by the smear of white at the corner of Jesse’s lips. He remembers so vividly, about a month ago, when Jesse reached out to brush chocolate from his own mouth. Jesse had swiped the smear with his thumb, bringing it up to his mouth to suck the chocolate off his finger.

Now that he’s in the same position with Jesse in front of him - he can’t imagine wanting anything more than to do the same.

Hanzo clenches his fingers a little tighter around his spoon and wills the heat to fade from his cheeks, returning Jesse’s easy smile as best he can while his nerves flip and flutter in his belly.

 

 

It happens when Jesse finally brings in the moonpies.

It’s past 9pm and dusk has long fallen, the bone-deep chill of the December wind growing as evening turns to night. Hanzo can hear it outside, the trees tapping at the windowpanes as the cold breezes buffet them to and fro, the wind whistling through the narrow downtown streets. The bakery is warm - it’s always warm, with the ovens going and bread rising - but the sounds outside make a chill run down Hanzo’s spine anyways. As much as he’s ready to go home and collapse into bed, he’s not looking forward to going outside.

There’s a faint jingle as the front door to the shop opens and shuts; Hanzo’s not surprised to see Jesse appear in the doorway a moment later, unwinding a thick scarf from around his neck as best he can with only one hand. There’s a white-and-blue tin stamped with snowflakes cradled in the other; between Jesse’s pink cheeks and charmingly bright grin, Hanzo can’t help but smile back at him.

  
“What’s this, cowboy?” he asks, leaning one hip against the work station he’d just finished wiping. He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s rather late for a friendly visit.”

“Got caught up in work longer than I’d hoped, so I didn’t get to making these until later this afternoon,” Jesse admits, gently shaking the container in his hands so that its contents gently move inside. Hanzo knows the sound of fresh cookies when he hears it - he’s an expert. “Wasn’t sure you’d still be here - I texted and you didn’t answer, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to stop by anyways. Front’s still all lit up, anyhow.”

Hanzo blinks. He hadn’t even felt his phone vibrate, but that’s not a surprise with how busy he’s been over the last few hours. “I haven’t had the chance to lock up yet,” he replies, taking the tin from Jesse’s hands when he offers it. The metal is cold to the touch from outside - as is Jesse’s metal fingers, when they skim Hanzo’s. “But I’m glad you stopped in, despite the hour.”

“Open up that before you thank me,” Jesse nods to the tin, smiling as he balls his scarf in his hands and move to lean next to Hanzo. He watches with barely-restrained anticipation as Hanzo pries off the lid to reveal the cookies inside.

They’re moon pies, carefully stacked in layers of wax paper. The scent is immediate; the warm smell of cinnamon and molasses wafts from the tin as soon as it’s open to the air. A layer of fresh marshmallow is sandwiched between each pair of soft gingersnaps, chocolate dripping over the sides where it melted when they’d been assembled while hot. The combination of spicy ginger and dark chocolate assaults Hanzo’s nose and his mouth waters, drinking in the combination of scents like a man parched.

Let it never be said that Hanzo doesn’t appreciate a well-made cookie.

“Go on and try one,” Jesse urges him, elbowing Hanzo gently in the side when all he does is stare and smell. “They’re for eating, you know.”

“Eating is a multi-sensory experience,” Hanzo sniffs, but it’s an empty complaint. Jesse makes for a painfully impatient audience as he picks a cookie off the top layer, licking at the marshmallow and chocolate so that it doesn’t drip all over him when he takes a bite. He catches Jesse’s eyes flicking away from his lips as he curls his tongue back into his mouth, the balance between the bitter dark chocolate and sticky, airy sweetness of the marshmallow flooding his mouth. The flavor combination is nuanced, perfect.

It’s nothing compared to the first bite.

The gingersnaps do have a bit of snap, a bit of sharp, spicy heat as Hanzo takes a healthy bite. The cookies break off in his mouth, crumbling gently on the outside with a chewy center that has Hanzo humming in pleasant surprise. Ribbons of marshmallow cling between his mouth and the rest of the moonpie, and he keeps pulling until they snap and part. There’s nothing like fresh marshmallow - the texture and flavor of the premade stuff doesn’t come _close_ to the sticky, light consistency of the middle of this cookie. Jesse must’ve made it all fresh that afternoon, Hanzo realizes, and swallows so that he can take another bite.

Jesse’s biting his lip by the time Hanzo chews and swallows again, with puppy-like eagerness as he waits for Hanzo’s verdict. There are probably crumbs in his beard, Hanzo thinks, but the cookies are so tasty he can’t bring himself to care. It’s almost unreal how good they are.

“These,” Hanzo says, nodding to the tin in his hands, “are the best thing you’ve ever made for me.”

“I told you,” Jesse beams, thumbing his hat in a nod of thanks, “nothin’ can beat my grandma’s recipe for moonpies. She taught me how to make the marshmallow herself, y’know.”

“You’ve certainly mastered it,” Hanzo slants a look at Jesse, licking a stray thread of marshmallow from his fingers. It’s sweet, but not cloyingly so - and the softness of its texture is nothing short of inspiring. It makes Hanzo want to incorporate marshmallow into his next experimental creation, when he finally has the time.

He’s felt this way about Jesse’s baking before - there are half a dozen things he’d like to try, flavor combinations and ingredients and techniques that the cowboy’s brought to his attention. But this - this is something special. And Hanzo isn’t shy about saying so.

“Well, thank you,” Jesse gives him another wide smile, reaching out to snag one of the cookies for himself. He doesn’t bite into it, though, content to watch Hanzo choose a second and examine it before he tucks in. Pink-cheeked and pleased from praise is a good look on Jesse McCree, Hanzo decides. “Just wait ‘til _s’mores_ is the theme of the baking competition, darlin’. If I can figure out a clever way to make these into a cake, I’d be a shoo-in for the blue ribbon.”

Hanzo stills.

The cookie in his mouth has gone suddenly tasteless. After a moment he keeps chewing, swallows down the heavy lump of it.

He hadn’t even thought of the county fair baking competition. He hadn’t thought about it for the last few _weeks_. But something is boiling up inside him, lurching past the sourness in his stomach and the bitterness in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he so strongly felt this- this-

“Not if I win it,” Hanzo finally responds. He’s fully aware that it should be pitched as a joke, that it should have come out as one, but the laughter catches in this throat. Something under his breastbone tightens and clenches. Something’s gotten an iron grip on his lungs.

“I hate to disagree with you,” Jesse says, scratching at his jaw with a smile, “but I’m mighty confident in my baking skills.”

“Jesse,” Hanzo says in warning, a wave of tension running down his spine. His fingers are white-knuckle on the tin of cookies.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t read the caution in Hanzo’s tone. “How else am I gonna make my Meemaw proud? Gotta put her lessons to good use.”

“ _Jesse,”_ Hanzo repeats, and their gazes lock. The grin starts to fade from Jesse’s face when he sees the intensity in Hanzo’s eyes, the way his jaw is locked. “I’m going to win next year.”

There’s something in his voice that makes Jesse finally pause. His gaze sharpens as studies Hanzo’s expression, moonpies forgotten.

“Is that so?” Jesse asks, measured and careful. “Well, we’ll have to wait and see about that.”

Hanzo’s temper flares at Jesse’s even, neutral tone - at how easily, _indifferently_ he can talk about winning the baking competition. Heat coils in his belly as the thoughts churn in his mind, rapid and gnashing. It’s a _competition_ , nothing so simple and low-stakes as bringing holiday cookies over to a friend. Hanzo is _professionally trained_. He’s a worthy competitor, and a challenging one.

His prowess won’t be brushed aside so easily.

“I’m sure we will,” Hanzo says tersely, and then, aware of Jesse’s watchfulness, bites down on the cookie harder than he had planned. Jesse winces. “What is your secret, McCree?”

Jesse’s brow crumples into a frown, mouth thinning. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you just like chatting up the competition?” Hanzo continues, words like bile rising in his throat. He can’t stop them, can’t stop the anger boiling in his veins. “Do you enjoy getting close, only to watch them fail when you triumph over them?”

The line of Jesse’s shoulders has gone rigid and tense, his mouth pressed thin as he bears the brunt of Hanzo’s words. His expression sours, the confusion in his eyes morphing to disappointment and hurt. “Do you really believe that, Hanzo? And here I thought we were bein’ friends.”

“ _Were_ we?” Hanzo can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “How do I know you aren’t just befriending me to ensure a third win next year?”

“Hanzo,” Jesse doesn’t snap, doesn’t plead, but it’s clear that his patience is wearing down. “Why would I do somethin’ like that? We’re _friends_ \- I want us to be friends, ain’t that been clear? Hell, if I’d wanted to make an enemy of you, I’d have just- “

“Just what?” Hanzo spits, “Beaten me at a baking competition? At my own craft? Find me in my own bakery to rub salt in the wound?”

Jesse exhales heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring as his annoyance visibly grows. “That _ain’t_ what happened. You were there, you should remember. Doesn’t anything we did in the past months matter to you?”

The hot, dark thing in Hanzo’s chest is vilified at getting a reaction. “What _matters to me_ is that twice you’ve taken a prize that is rightfully mine! I’m a professional; you shouldn’t have been able to-”

“You stubborn son of a-” McCree interrupts, cutting himself off with a huff. “I know you said you hadn’t forgiven me, but I thought you’d been gettin’ over this! It’s the _county fair baking competition,_ darlin’, there ain’t a lot on the line besides-”

“My pride is on the line,” Hanzo sneers, teeth bared. “And it matters to me that I do my best and that I _am_ the best, even if it is of little consequence to _you_.”

Hanzo storms out of his own kitchen, leaving Jesse McCree and his stunned silence in his wake.

The back door slams as he pushes through it and out into the chilly night air. Hands balled into fists at his side, Hanzo resists the strangled shout of frustration that threatens to escape his throat and slams his fist into the side of the dumpster instead. It makes a satisfying hollow bang, and Hanzo’s almost surprised to find that he’s breathing hard. He can see every exhale in the pale orange light of the parking lot; his heart keeps hammering away in his chest. The cold air stings.

Hanzo’s face feels hot against his fingers when he runs them through his hair, willing himself to calm. It’s a long time before his breathing evens and he steps back into the bakery, careful to close the door softly.

By the time he returns, Jesse McCree is long gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as [venvephe](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/ven_writes) as well!


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